


That Kamski Touch

by NuclearMcDuck



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Dubious Consent, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, I haven't even finished the game but set post peaceful ending, M. Wilson didn't have a name so I called him Michael, M/M, Sexual Tension, Upgrade - Freeform, dub con warning for chapter 6, its a ship fic now RIP me, sensitivity to touch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-05-26 18:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15006341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearMcDuck/pseuds/NuclearMcDuck
Summary: Connor becomes injured in the course of an investigation... But Cyberlife is unwilling and, increasingly, unable to assist him. Jericho is too short on resources, and Connor doesn't have much time...Kamski, it seems, is the next best option. But his help comes with a price tag - an experimental upgrade, in exchange for medical care.How bad could it be? Not worse than death. Hopefully.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fuuuuuuck me, I love Detroit: Become Human. I have been watching Bryan's stream, and god bless that man, and his lovely wife-to-be!
> 
> I'm obsessed. I got this idea and I couldn't not write it. I hope that you enjoy it!

The day had not started out well.

There had been little indication when he had awoken a recalcitrant Hank from sleeping in, ensuring that they were only an hour and a half late to work (rather than Hank’s usual three hours). The Lieutenant had groaned and grumbled, but he had begrudgingly accepted the coffee Connor handed him, refusing to actually get out of the bed until the mug was empty.

Connor had handed him a bowl of high-fibre cereal when he finally appeared in the kitchen, and allowed Hank to “sneak” a donut from the cupboard before they left for the precinct.

Hank kept his eyes on the road in front of them, and Connor had briefly considered reprimanding him for the decibel level of the music and the impact it was, no doubt, having on his hearing – but was stopped when Hank turned the volume down himself, as though aware of Connor’s thoughts. Connor looked at Hank, whose eye’s darted briefly from the road to meet his. Hank looked… Concerned.

“You know, you don’t have to make me breakfast,” He said lightly, but his shoulders had tensed.

“I hardly think that pouring cereal into a bowl constitutes making breakfast,” Connor responded, though it was clear that there was some subtext that he was missing that was making Hank uncomfortable.

“I just mean…” Hank started, then hesitated, as though trying to figure out what it was that he meant. “… You’re not … _Obliged_ to cook, or clean, or… Whatever.”

“I am if I want to be at work at a reasonable hour,” Connor joked, and Hank huffed in amusement. Connor was glad to see the levity eased the tenseness in Hank’s posture.

“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little late,” Hank dismissed easily.

“I’ll have to let Captain Fowler know that,” Connor let his lips quirk into a little smile.

“Oh, he knows,” Hank chuckled. “But seriously, Connor…” And there it was again. The tension. “You know you don’t hafta _work_ to earn your keep, or whatever – just…”

Connor found himself leaning forward a little, uncertain where this was going, or what had set it off.

“… You’re my friend,” Hank said at last, speaking as though he had to drag the words out of his mouth. “Not my house-maid.” Anxious blue eyes found his again. “You know that, right?”

Emotions, it seemed, were as difficult for Hank as Connor was finding them. And he’d been having them for more than half a century. “Of course, Lieutenant,” Connor said, sincere. “I know that you don’t expect that of me. In the future, perhaps I could simply wake you up and have you make your own coffee and breakfast? If I wake you up at six thirty, we should be at the precinct by-“

“Now, hold on,” Hank interrupted gruffly, eyes on the road again, but a finger waggling at Connor disapprovingly. “No need for that.”

“If I don't do it, who will?,” Connor asked, voice light. “If you don't do it, and _I_ don't do it... Unless you wanted me to train _Sumo_ to pour you cereal, which I could attempt?” Another joke, and Hank looked as calm as he ever did once again.

“Old dogs don’t learn new tricks,” Hank said, as they pulled into the station’s parking lot. “And they sure as shit don’t get out of bed at six-fucking-thirty.”

“On the contrary, Lieutenant,” Connor said smugly, smile still tugging at his lips. “I took Sumo for a walk at six this morning, and he seemed to enjoy it very much.”

Hank parked the car, roughly pulling the handbrake on before shooting Connor a sardonic look. “I’m an older dog than Sumo,” He said, deadpan.

They had a case waiting for them when they arrived.

“Double homicide,” Fowler announced, slapping a file on Hank’s desk – just as Hank had collapsed into his chair.

“Double the fun,” Hank groaned, rubbing at his eyes with his palms.

Connor was already paging through the files, scanning the pages for information. “This happened this morning?” He asked, but Fowler was already walking back to his office.

“Ask Wilson,” He said, waving over his shoulder. “He was at the crime scene.”

Connor immediately made for Michael Wilson’s desk, Hank taking a moment to huff in exasperation before peeling himself out of his chair, making a show of grunting as he stood, as though he were a much older man.

“Officer Wilson,” Connor said by way of greeting as he approached the officer’s desk.

Wilson looked up from his terminal, and beamed upon seeing the android who had saved his life. “Connor,” He said amicably. “What can I do for you?”

“Mike, what can ya tell us about this double homicide this morning?” Hank said, coming to stand beside Connor.

“Oh, that,” Wilson said, face falling, glancing at Connor with an apologetic look in his eyes. “Yeah. There was, uh… Four dead at the scene.”

“Four?” Hank said, incredulous. “I thought it was a double homicide? What, two by-standers dies of heart attacks, or what?”

“Two dead humans,” Wilson corrected. “Two, uh… Broken androids.”

“Oh,” Hank said, and Connor saw in his peripheral vision that Hank also shot him an apologetic look.

“I already read that in the report,” Connor responded neutrally. Hank sighed heavily through his nose.

“There’s not much I can tell you that isn’t already in the report,” Wilson said, discomfort apparent. “It might be best to head out there. It only happened an hour ago… We thought that, given the… _political climate_ , it might be best if you two have a go at it.”

“I see,” Connor said, and he did. Though President Warren had signed a presidential decree declaring that androids had rights, the details of that had yet to be ironed out. Could they own property? Could they earn a wage? Could they be tried as human would be for crimes, or be treated as a human when crimes were committed against them? The law still regarded them as property, and there had not been any cases to change the legal precedent that had already been set. Laws took a long time to change, and precedent even longer. They could not, as yet, prosecute android killings as murders.

Fortunately, it was still rare to see android killings, given that humans were only returning to Detroit in a slow trickle. Many had been too poor to leave in the first place, but they had largely been too busy taking residence in abandoned buildings to do any harm to the androids who were taking their first steps in the world as free beings.

“Hey,” Hank’s hand landed heavily on Connor’s shoulder, and he turned his head to regard the man properly. His eyes were filled with compassion as he said, “Guess we’d better go check this out.”

Before they could make a move to exit, however, an unwelcome voice greeted them from the break room.

“The fuck is that thing doing in here?!”

“Detective Reed,” Connor greeted, ignoring Hank’s scowling and muttering. “I’m here to assist Lieutenant Anderson in an investigation.”

“Forget him, Connor, we’re leaving,” Hank said, lightly tugging on his shoulder.

“Hold up, seriously,” Gavin said, making his way toward them.

Connor opted to stand his ground. This man didn’t intimidate him.

“ _Connor_ ,” Hank hissed.

“What. The Fuck,” Gavin enunciated. “Are you doing here?”

“I already told you,” Connor said, carefully keeping the annoyance out of his tone. He recognised this feeling from the many times that Gavin had been difficult with him, even before he went deviant. It made him wonder about how many emotions he had felt before he had become truly aware of them.

“What, they _hired_ you? You an officer, now? Am I gonna have to start paying my laptop a fuckin’ wage?” He was irritable, as usual.

Connor opted for honesty, even as Hank tugged insistently on his sleeve (Wilson was staring very determinedly at his terminal). “Technically, I am DCPD equipment, until legislation regarding android rights is established.”

Hank groaned at the same time that Gavin laughed. “So you’re just equipment, huh?” Gavin said smugly, shit eating grin twisting his features unpleasantly. “Sounds about right.”

“Get fucked, Reed,” Hank said, moving to barge past him.

But Reed was nothing if not determined, and it seemed that he had a point to prove today. He started to move towards Connor, who continued to stand his ground.

“Maybe we oughta-“ Gavin’s speech was cut off by Hank’s foot shooting out to entwine with his, causing Gavin to fall forward, hands reaching forward to catch himself on whatever he could.

What they found was the front of Connor’s jeans, which slipped down to pool around his ankles as Gavin face-planted the ground.

Every eye in the precinct was suddenly on them, and Connor had the bizarre sensation of being frozen, limbs not responding to his commands. Social protocols had been violated. This was inappropriate for the workplace. Why didn’t Cyberlife give him underwear?

“Oh, my god,” Wilson said, hand covering his mouth to hide his laughter.

“Fuck it,” Hank said, turning swiftly in the break room and pouring himself a coffee while Connor remained frozen.

Gavin, who had been cursing at the floor, pushed himself up, shaking with rage (and disorientation) as he got his legs under him again, but was struck speechless when he saw Connor’s predicament.

“They gave you a _dick_?” He shouted, scandalised, and that seemed to be the catalyst for the stunned silence to transform into uproarious laughter from every officer in the room.

A glance at Fowler’s office confirmed that the Captain, too, had collapsed at his desk, fist pounding it, his chest heaving as he laughed.

Connor swallowed as he bent to pull the jeans back up, causing a female officer behind him to wolf-whistle.

He straightened once his jeans were secure on his hips again, brushing away non-existent dirt from the front of his pants. When he looked up, he met Gavin’s wide eyes.

Wilson leaned over his desk to stage whisper to Gavin, “You owe me fifty bucks.”

Gavin sneered at him. “You don’t know if it works,” He shot back, snidely.

“Well, he sure as hell ain’t a Ken doll,” Wilson typed happily away at his terminal. “And that was the bet, so…”

To his horror, Wilson stopped typing and spun in his chair to face Connor. “ _Does_ it work?”

He could not construct an answer that didn’t end in humiliation, so he opted for the truth. “It was installed so as to be an option during investigations, specifically undercover work, so yes, it has the capability to simulate human copulation.”

 “You really _are_ a _deviant_ , aren’t you?” Wilson said playfully, winking at Connor.

He wanted to delete this memory.

“Connor, let’s fucking go,” Hank shouted, having drained his coffee. “Show’s over, folks,” He called out to the rest of the precinct. It didn’t stop the giggles and sniggering.

Connor had never been so eager to leave. He almost stood on Hank’s heels as he followed him out.

When they got in the car, Hank finally burst out laughing. At least he hadn’t laughed in front of the other officers, but Connor still hid his face in his hands, sinking into the passenger seat to hide himself. Hank laughed harder, wheezing.

The day started badly, and went downhill from there.


	2. Detective Dick-Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is informed of the new status quo in the DCPD - however long it lasts, what with everything changing so rapidly.
> 
> The stakes are higher, these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll B)
> 
> This is intended to be a humorous fic, but it's D:BH, so there's heavy themes - a black comedy, maybe?

The light-hearted mood turned sombre as they reached the scene.

It was in an apartment, third floor, rented by one Angela Punt (“Unfortunate name,” was Hank’s assessment). She had owned an android that still cohabitated with her, Dalton (a WR600), and it was wrapped around another corpse on the queen bed in the master bedroom.

Their bodies had been burnt.

At the foot of the bed lay a fire extinguisher and two more bodies. One android, an AX400, and one human male, Rohan King. Both had suffered a fatal bullet wound to the head. The android’s was self-inflicted, Rohan’s was less clear.

Connor related this information to Hank.

“So that burned one,” He said, jutting his chin to the bed. “That Angela?”

“It is hard to tell given the extensive burns, my facial recognition software cannot find a match,” Connor said. “I will have to analyse-“

Hank held up a hand to silence him. “Just… Let me leave the room, first,” He said, face paling.

His heavy footfalls signalled his exit as Connor approached the bed, carefully running two fingers along the charred skin, collecting a mixture of ash and crispy skin.

A quick touch to his tongue confirmed it.

“It’s her – Angela Punt,” He announced, and Hank stepped back into the room.

“Why couldn’t they have put your sensor-thingy in your damn fingers?” Hank groused, stepping around one of the forensics team.

Connor knew that it was a rhetorical question, so refrained from answering. “The WR600 appears to have its hands wrapped around the forearms of Ms. Punt.”

“And what do you make of that?” Hank pushed, leaning over the pair to see for himself.

“The fire started in the android,” Connor began, scanning the WR600. “It appears to have had a major internal dysfunction, resulting in spontaneous combustion, due to biocomponents 2887, 8-“

“It set on fucking fire?” Hank repeated, nose curling. “So, the fire wasn’t set on purpose?”

“It may be that the android chose to set itself alight, but it is unlikely,” Connor considered the possibilities. “I think it is more likely that it was unintentional.”

“So why’d he decide to take his owner down with him?” Hank nodded to the synthetic fingers, plastic melted onto burnt flesh. “Final act of revenge for a life of servitude?”

“Perhaps,” Connor said, non-committal. There was a single unburned blanket on the bed, a shattered glass on the ground next to the head of the bed, a shattered vase under the window, Rohan King’s fingerprints on the handle of the fire extinguisher, no sign of the gun used in the attack…

 “Well, these two sure did something,” Hank moved to the end of the bed, kneeling over the two bodies.

“They attempted to put out the flames, but could not do so before the WR600 and Ms. Punt extinguished,” Connor said factually.

Hank raised an eyebrow at him.

“That was not a pun,” Connor said quickly. “My apologies.”

“Well, _then_ what the fuck happened?” Hank looked between the bodies. “The gun was under the bed – fell out of someone’s hands after they used it. Murder suicide?” He looked at Connor to confirm.

“The AX400’s wound _is_ self-inflicted,” he confirmed. “I am having difficulty understanding the trajectory of wound on Mr. King, however.”

“Maybe he was trying to put out the flames, and the android wanted to stop him? … Or the other way around,” Hank sighed into his hand. “God, this is a mess – hold on!”

Hank tugged on one of the blankets on the bed, a one-metre by one-metre sheet of grey material. “This is a-“

“Fire blanket,” Connor confirmed, scanning it. “Someone was trying very hard to put the fire out.”

“And King here has burns on his hands,” Hank noted.

“Yes. I suspect that he attempted to use the fire blanket, before either leaving to get the fire extinguisher, or having it brought to him by the other android – or anyone else who might have been on the scene,” Connor had scanned the living room on the way in, though… “But I saw no evidence of another person, or android, entering or leaving the premises.”

Connor ignored Hank as he grunted and moved to examine the rest of the room, lost in calculating his reconstruction of the scene.

Reconstruction complete. The WR600 had set alight whilst lying on the bed, Amanda had entered from the ensuite and tried to pour a glass of water on him, to no avail. For whatever reason, WR600 had clung to her, when Rohan King had entered and attempted to put out the fire with blanket, failing to do so and burning his hands.

The only next step that made sense was the AX400 entering with the fire extinguisher, which King grabbed, and used to put out the fire – too late to save the pair. Then…

An open drawer, King’s fingerprints the most recent on the handle and disturbing the layer of ash that had discoloured it. He had pulled the gun from the bedside cabinet, and –

Attempted to shoot himself, but there had been a scuffle (knocking over the vase), leaving him at the end of the bed. The weapon discharged, but the gun had been pushed from his hands at the last second. The shot had still proved fatal, travelling through his jaw into his brain stem.

Then the AX400 had shot herself.

The gun had fallen from her hands and skidded under the bed.

As he let the reconstruction program end, he knelt at the base of the bed and pulled out the gun from beneath it. “I know what happened,” he said ruefully.

All that was left after that was statements from the neighbours, and then they were on their way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Connor filled out the report digitally and sent it to Fowler while they drove – not to the precinct, but to Chicken Feed.

“Still fuckin’ closed,” Hank sighed, restarting the car.

“There is a McDonald’s two blocks from here,” Connor suggested absently.

Hank paused, giving him _a look_.

“There’s also a Whole Foods-“

“McDonald’s it is,” Hank sighed even _more_ heavily, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

They went through the drive-through, Hank getting a large meal before driving them back to the station.

Connor found himself reluctant to get out of the car.

“You comin’?” Asked Hank, who has halfway out of the car, one hand gripping his paper McDonald’s bag as though it were the most important thing in the world.

“Give me a moment, Lieutenant,” Connor said.

Hank chuckled and slid back into the driver’s seat. “Still embarrassed?” He was amused.

“I’m a machine, I don’t feel-“ He stopped himself, realising that this was far from the truth. He looked sheepishly at Hank, whose brows had drawn together in that concerned, fatherly way that they did. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Force of habit.”

“You’ll outgrow it. You’re young,” Hank said, distracting himself from the awkwardness by opening the bag and pulling out his burger. “Look at this shit – half the size of the Chicken Feed’s.”

“But a similar number of calories,” Connor commented.

“Thanks for that, _Detective Dick-Out_ ,” Hank snorted, unwrapping the burger and taking a bite from it.

Connor felt his hand on his face before he realised that he’d put it there. “That was… An unfortunate incident,” He said softly.

Hank tried not to choke on his food as he laughed, one hand reaching out to grab his drink to clear his throat. After a few harried sucks on the straw, he cleared his throat. “God, I hope that they got that on CCTV,” He said, smirking.

Connor’s betrayed look didn’t seem to inspire Hank’s conscience to ease up on him.

“You should have seen the look on your face,” Hank chuckled. “If anyone ever says that androids don’t feel anything that’d be the most compelling piece of evidence that – aww, come on!”

Connor had crossed his arms and set his gaze out the passenger window.

“Don’t be like that, Connor… Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned here?” He could tell, by the lilt in Hank’s voice, that he was gearing up for a joke.

Alright, he’d take the bait. “What lesson?” He said, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Wear underwear,” Hank wheezed, leaning against the steering wheel for support.

“Maybe that’s not the lesson,” Connor countered, putting on his best glare to shoot Hank’s way, though Hank wasn’t deterred from taking another bite out of his burger. “Maybe the lesson is for another android revolution to replace humans with robots.”

Hank stopped mid-chew, an unreadable look on his face.

“That way I could wipe the precinct’s memory of the incident.”

Hank choked on the burger again.

 

* * *

 

 

It took until Hank had finished his meal to convince Connor to get out of the car (“What, you gonna quit? Never come into work again?”, “…No,”).

Connor had the strange experience of simultaneously trying to hold his head high, as though he weren’t impacted by the events of the morning, and trying to hide behind Hank. Thankfully, Gavin didn’t appear to be in the office. It was still impossible not to notice the way that every officer whispered and pointed, stared after him.

“You two!”

Connor nearly jumped out of his synthetic skin when Fowler yelled from the door of his office, pointing directly at himself and Hank. “My office, now.”

“… What the fuck’d’we do?” Hank grunted, making his way over. Connor followed, keeping his eyes on Hank’s back so that he wouldn’t see the officers giggling at his expense.

“Take a seat,” Captain Fowler said as they entered.

Connor did so. Hank remained standing.

“I have a proposal for you two,” He began, hands clasped in front of him on the desk.

“You’re doubling my pay,” Hank suggested dryly.

“No, even better,” Fowler said, grinning a dangerous grin at Hank.

Connor heard his partner mutter, so softly that human ears might not hear it, “uh oh.”

“You two are back on deviant cases,” He announced. “You’re officially in charge of all cases involving serious crimes that involve androids.”

“Greeeat,” Hank said with painfully false enthusiasm.

Connor shifted. “I believe that the term ‘deviant’ is no longer the accepted parlance-“

“I know, Connor,” Fowler interrupted. “But Christ alive, we are in the middle of a situation right now. We’re understaffed in the wake of our androids up and walking out of here, joining Jericho, or working at Eden, or whatever the fuck they’re doing now – And we’ve got no fucking clue what we can and can’t do when there are crimes against androids, or what the fuck we can charge androids with if they break the law. We’ve got the FBI crawling all over Detroit, we’ve got the fucking CIA asking for files on every android that’s so much as jaywalked, and we’ve got the media clogging our fucking phone lines.”

He paused, took a deep breath, and looked Connor in the eyes. “We were lucky that the incident this morning _wasn’t_ a homicide, because that shit will be on the goddamn world news. We’ve already received a request from Cyberlife for the DCPD to return their property to them,” He gave Connor a significant look, and it made him feel as though his thirium had cooled by several degrees. “And-“

“Fuck Cyberlife!” Hank roared, hands slamming against the desk. “They can’t _have_ him back! I hope you told them to get fucked, Jeffrey, or I-“

“HANK!” Now Fowler was standing, too. “I want him here, too! Sit the fuck down!”

Hank didn’t, but Fowler settled back down in his chair and went on. “I’m on your side, Connor, but you’re in a legal black hole. So is every android in this city. We need you to be the public face of cases that the media get a hold of – and you’d better believe that they’re looking for ‘em. We wanna keep you here, but nothing is for certain, yet. We’re in the process of putting together a department that specialises in android cases, but I’m meeting…” He paused, lip curling in disgust for a moment before he schooled his expression, “… Resistance amongst some of our top brass.”

“If he goes, I go, Jeffrey,” Hank said sternly, and Connor appreciated his solidarity.

“He’s not going anywhere, Hank,” Fowler sighed. “But this is bigger than you two. You think Cyberlife is gonna take this lying down? You think we can just restructure our whole fucking country from the ground up to pay robots to work? Everything’s gone to shit. No one knows what the fuck is going to happen. Hate groups have already started organising protests across the goddamn world. And Detroit is the eye of the fucking storm.”

Connor understood, on some level, that the things that Captain Fowler was talking about were important… But his mind kept tripping over the one thing. “What did Cyberlife say they wanted with me?”

Hank and Fowler both turned to look at him.

“They weren’t exactly explicit, Connor,” He said, sombre. “They said they wanted to ‘diagnose and catalogue technical issues leading to deviancy’, and wanted their prototype back.”

“Sounds to me like a fucking autopsy,” Hank growled, fists clenching.

“That sounds about right,” Fowler sighed. “They also made it plenty clear that the only way that they’d provide any new equipment is on the condition that you were returned. So that’s the issue, Connor – we want you on the force. We want you to be the public face of android-related cases. We want to try our damndest to keep you here. The only catch is…”

“I can’t be repaired by Cyberlife,” Connor finished for him. “Or replaced.”

Hank fell back into the chair as though he’d lost the ability to stand. “Fuck,” he whispered, eyes unfocused.

No one spoke for a moment.

“I’ll do it,” Connor said, resolute.

“You mean be the public face, right?” Hank demanded of him, grabbing his shoulder in a vice-like grip. “Behind the scenes shit, no more field work. Someplace you won’t get fucking _shot_ again, or stabbed, or your fucking heart ripped out-”

“We’re gonna try and source parts for you by ordering from other precincts,” Fowler explained, earning a harsh glare from Hank, but Connor interrupted them both.

“They won’t work. I’m unique,” He explained clinically. “As a prototype, some of my non-essential components might be compatible, but I’m afraid that my thirium regulator and pump are both non-standard, due to the need for higher thirium pressure as part of my-“

“So we can’t fix you. Got it,” Fowler said, waving away the rest of Connor’s explanation. “So try not to get shot. You still on board?”

“He can’t go out in the field like that, Jeffrey,” Hank protested.

“By that logic, no human in the DCPD should do field work,” Connor protested right back. “All it means is that I will require the same safety equipment used by any other officer. You would have a similar likelihood of surviving a shot to your person, Lieutenant.” He looked to Fowler, determined. “I am on board.”

Hank opened his mouth to argue, then closed it and sank back in his chair, angry but deflated.

“I’ve already got some volunteers for the new android department,” Fowler said, once it was clear that Hank wasn’t going to start another fight.

“I thought you said that your superiors were against this endeavour?” Connor asked warily.

“Didn’t say I was gonna let that stop me, did I?” Fowler smirked. “Anyone asks, you’re just a Lieutenant and a portable terminal,” He smiled crookedly, looking Connor in the eyes as he finished, “With a dick.”

Connor nearly regretted staying.


	3. Connor, the world's first and only android detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gets thrust into the public spotlight, which he quickly discovers he hates. At least his dick isn't out, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... Got a bit carried away. There's a lot more plot and things other than humour in this story, now. This started out as a boner joke. Turns out I have way too many feelings about DBH. So... Yeah.
> 
> I really worry that this chapter is boring :/ You can be the judge!!

Fowler let the new “team-but-not-officially-a-team-cause-we’re-not-actually-supposed-to-be-doing-this” (his words) have an orientation in the briefing room.

It included, of course, himself and Hank, but also Detective Ben Collins (an old colleague of Hank’s who respected the Lieutenant), Officer Chris Miller, Officer Michael Wilson, and Officer Verity Person. It included, it seemed, anyone who Fowler thought might be friendly. Fowler, though endorsing (and indeed starting) the project, made himself scarce. The less he knew, the better – he’d be the one getting grilled by the higher-ups when things heated up.

Hank leaned against the desk at the front of the room, the others sitting on the plastic fold-up chairs in a loose semi-circle around him. Connor sat at his right-hand side, posture perfect, but knees and feet tucked together awkwardly, like he didn’t know how to sit like a human (or, as Hank put it, had a stick big enough that even Sumo couldn’t fetch it so far up his arse that it stuck out his mouth).

It was Ben who asked the key question that everyone was dying to know.

“Why the hell are we doing this, Hank?” He asked, careful to keep his voice down. It was clear as day to anyone in the bullpen that there was a meeting going on, but the rest of the office wasn’t in on what was being planned. “I thought the FBI was taking over all of this shit?”

“We’re the first people to get called when shit goes down out there, so we’re likely to get a narrow window of opportunity to get in and investigate before the Feds do,” Hank began, leaning against the desk at the front of the room. Connor sat off to his side, carefully observing the reactions of the room.

“We know that the FBI isn’t keen on presenting androids in the best light – it’s no secret that they’re keen to reverse what’s happened. And I don’t want any of you fuckers repeating what I’m about to say outside of this room, but…” Hank looked at the door, as though to make sure that it was closed, before turning back to the seated officers and lowering his voice. “We heard that their next step is gonna be a scare campaign – androids becoming super-powered criminals, hacking people’s shit, going on revenge quests – the whole goddamn shebang.”

“And what the hell can we do about it?” Officer Person challenged, sitting bolt upright in her seat. “They’re pushing us out – what, they’re gonna let us barge right back in? Investigate whatever we feel like, put out feel-good press releases?”

“You don’t wanna be here? Door’s there,” Hank shot back, pointing at the door with his thumb.

“I’m not against it,” Person defended, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying it seems like there’s shit-all we can do without getting our asses handed to us by people with bigger budgets and more power.”

Hank huffed a derisory laugh. “That’s true,” He said, crossing his arms and shrugging. “But Connor and I can’t do this alone – we need to know that we’ve got some people on-side. Never said it wouldn’t be risky.”

Officer Wilson raised his hand awkwardly, like a kid in middle school. “Sir, I’m not sure what’s being proposed,” He said, slowly.  “How can we stop the FBI running an anti-android campaign?”

“That’s a good question – we don’t know how this shit is gonna play out,” Hank admitted. “Shit has already hit the fan, and we’ve gotta investigate where it fucking lands – and there’s no guidebook, here. No precedent for what the fuck we’re supposed to do. The Fed’s’ll try and jump onto any case they suspect involves androids, and start fear-mongering in every headline in every paper on every goddamn continent.”

Hank paused, and Connor couldn’t help but identify the general mood as one of defeat – before they’d even begun, the people in this room felt the task was too big for them to take on.

“For now, our role will be fact-checking and obscuring– getting in before they can lock us out, getting the real facts of the case, throwing them off the trail by down-playing android involvement… And countering their bullshit when they do get wind of shit that goes down. Will we cop shit for it?” Hank nodded, with a lackadaisical expression laced with amusement that made the situation seem less impossible than it sounded. “ _Absolutely_. But I’ll be damned if we just roll over and give up cause things get a little messy.”

“But why the hell would anyone listen to a damn thing we have to say?” Ben pressed, leaning forward, expression contemplative. “The FBI can get that Murdoch whelp to dance to their tune, but how do _we_ get _our_ message out there?”

“That’s where I come in, Detective,” Connor said, speaking for the first time since the meeting began.

All eyes went straight to him. He stifled the urge to check that his pants were where they were supposed to be.

The Officers looked confused, but Ben seemed to have a knowing smile growing on his face. Connor opted to put the rest of the room out of their misery.

“It won’t be hard to get media attention on the only android detective in the world,” he said, simply. “Having myself give interviews to contest the FBI’s version of events and ensure truthful reporting in the event that we can’t keep them away from a crime scene is the course of action with the highest probability of success.”

“Well, it’ll certainly get the public hooked,” Ben chuckled. “That’d be something I’d bother to watch the news for, for sure!”

“And we’ve already got one or two media contacts lined up for it, not that we’ve given them any details of what we’re tryna do here,” Hank added. “They’re _very keen_ to get a microphone in Connor’s face.”

The room seemed to be warming to the idea… But Wilson was still shaking his head.

“Something wrong?” Connor asked him, startling the man out of his reverie.

“Oh… Kinda,” Wilson muttered, gathering his thoughts. “It’s just… We’re _one_ precinct. In _one_ city. This shit is all over the country… Hell, the _world_.”

Connor nodded solemnly, silently agreeing. The rest of the room seemed to sober at the realisation, even Hank shifting uncomfortably against the desk.

“It seems like… It’s just a drop in the ocean,” Wilson finished, sounding almost apologetic.

Connor wished that he had Markus’ speech-making ability right about now… He knew that he didn’t cut the most inspirational figure. He was too analytical, too factual, too focused on realistic possibilities, instead of rallying people to aspire to greater things.

… But he could try.

“Lots of people are doing a wide variety of things to try and cement the gains of Markus’ revolution,” he began, capturing the attention of the room. “And many others are working to reverse everything that we’ve achieved.”

He paused, searching for the words he needed.

“This might not seem like something that can… Change the world,” Markus made this look so _easy_. “But the world _is_ changing, and we have a role to play in it. Even seemingly small contributions now will have a disproportionate impact on the development of the situation.”

There. _Kind_ of inspiring, he thought – even if it erred on the side of the pragmatic.

Wilson, at least, seemed convinced.

“You’re right,” He said, inhaling deeply and straightening his posture, instantly looking defiant. Resolute. “I’m in.”

“Good,” Hank announced, clapping his hand together and breaking the tension abruptly. “Now we’re all on the same page about that, here’s the next most important thing to know; this is to be kept more secret than your internet search history. Than your social security number. Than… Whatever other thing that’s top secret.”

He made sure to make eye contact with every single member of their new team, as though he could bore his own will into their souls through their eyes. “You’re just doing your jobs like normal, but you report anything involving androids _directly to me_ , and _no one else_. Capiche?”

General assent echoed in the room, affirmative “hmms,” and nodding heads.

They had then discussed some other necessary tasks relating to their new team – logistical things, exchanging phone numbers, ensuring they all had each other’s contact details. It all seemed… _Promising_ to Connor, dare he say. It felt good, to be doing something… To be contributing to Markus’ revolution, to their shared cause, in some way.

He had wanted to go to Jericho. He had wanted to stay with them, help them… But he’d been awash with guilt over Amanda’s nearly-successful attempt to use him as a tool to end the revolution before it could truly begin. He was afraid to be near the organising centre, to risk their work in any way. At least this way he could be of some use to them, even if it was from a distance.

They soon wrapped up, and Wilson, Person and Ben left the room, trudging back to their desks.

Connor moved to follow, but Hank slapped a hand down on his shoulder. “That went well!” He said, cheerful.

“Yes,” Connor agreed, but stiffened as he received a call from Fowler, LED going yellow and right eye involuntarily blinking.

“Something wrong?” Hank ventured, eyeing his LED.

Connor focused on the call for a moment, grateful that Hank remained silent as he dealt with it. When it was over, he looked at Hank, hoping his nervousness wasn’t apparent. “We might have to test my media skills a little earlier than anticipated, Lieutenant.”

“What? Why?”

“There’s about forty journalists outside, asking questions about the ‘ _double homicide’_ involving androids this morning.”

“Well, shit.”

 

* * *

 

 

They announced that they would have a press conference featuring the world’s first and only android detective (perhaps stretching the truth a little about Connor’s on-paper role), and the journalists ate it up. They gave themselves thirty minutes to prepare statements and get their story straight.

The incident hadn’t been a homicide, but this was about more than clearing up the misconception. It was also about trying to push the line that androids weren’t evil machines hell-bent on revenge against humans, or whatever spin the journos were looking to push. The broader political implications of the ensuing headlines that would be released was a pressure that Connor was having to come to terms with very quickly.

“You’ve got all the statements? The evidence? You’re _sure_?” Hank pressed, and Connor resisted snapping at him because he _knew_ that he was only trying to help.

“Literally _no one_ has a deeper grasp of this case than I do,” Connor reaffirmed. Again.

Ben was brainstorming what leading questions right-wing, anti-android journalists might throw at him, and getting him to respond. Between the three of them, they were confident that they could avoid fucking it up too badly.

“What about this – ‘Could androids weaponise their ability to spontaneously combust?’” Ben challenged him.

“That’s a misunderstanding,” Connor responded immediately. “This was not an intentional combustion, but a result of malfunctioning hardware that resulted in deactivation. According to our analysis, it is not replicable using coding commands, and is totally involuntary – but also avoidable, with appropriate upkeep and maintenance.”

“That’s alright, but maybe a bit cold – we’re tryna humanise these guys, yanno?” Ben critiqued. “Maybe don’t talk about them like they’re a broken computer.”

Hank seemed to agree. “Maybe instead’a ‘resulted in deactivation’, try somethin’ more like… ‘unfortunately resulted in the death of’, yeah?”

“… Yeah,” Connor agreed, hands fidgeting as his thirium pump clenched disconcertingly. Anxiety was a terrible thing, he was discovering.

Hank patted him roughly on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine, kid. If you really start to freak out, just imagine everyone in their underwear – or, you know, naked, since underwear isn’t your thing-“

Connor punched him lightly on the arm. Light enough not to hurt him. Hard enough to let him know to shut the fuck up.

Hank chuckled good-naturedly, rubbing his arm as though it were actually hurt. “Sorry, hadta,” he said, not looking apologetic at all. “You just get out there and focus on speakin’ real good,” And his voice darkened a little as he finished with, “We’ll focus on figuring out who the fuck leaked this case to the goddamn press.”

 

* * *

 

This was a terrible day. As he stood before the flashing cameras and hovering press drones recording him, his mind provided the unhelpful image of himself, pantsless, in front of world media.

 _No, picture THEM in their underwear_ , he imagined Hank saying. It helped.

He reached the stand they’d set up with a microphone, up on the reception desk, using the desk as a barrier for the press to stand behind. He was bracketed by both Officer Wilsons, one on either side. More journalists had appeared since the announcement that he’d be speaking went out, and now there was easily one-hundred bodies squeezed into the room.

Silence reigned, save for the clicking of cameras, as he stepped up onto the desk and stood before the crowd, clinging to the podium for support.

“Hello,” He began, eyes flitting over the many faces in the room, trying to identify some of them – there were representatives from news local, state, national, and international outlets here. “My name is Connor, and I am a member of the Detroit City Police Department. I’m here today to respond to reports of an incident involving two androids that occurred this morning at nine o’clock, which has been investigated by our department and found to have been a case of accidental death, involving four people.”

He took a moment to inhale deeply, letting his words sink in. There had already been headlines screaming about android murderers making the rounds, photos from the scene obviously taken from files in DCPD’s records. They had to clear the air, report the truth.

“The residence in which the incident took place was home to four people, two couples – both android-human relationships.”

That announcement resulted in an immediate firestorm of questioning – “Do you mean to say they were sexually involved with the androids?”; “Is this a case of murder over passion?”; “What evidence is there that these humans engaged in sexual relations with these androids?”

It was a little overwhelming. He turned down the light sensitivity on his eyes to cope with the barrage of flashing.

“Please hold all questions until the end,” He said loudly, and it _did_ shut a fair few of them up. The rest of them complied as he continued, “Evidence within the home, as well as the testimonies of neighbours and friends, indicates that both relationships were long-term and stable, with each couple wearing rings to signify their devotion to each other.

“Out of respect to the families, we will not be sharing their names, photos, or identifying information – but it is clear that both couples showed no signs of distress prior to this incident, and cohabitated out of financial concerns regarding rent.” Another stretch of the truth – the victims didn’t really have families, most relatives deceased or estranged. And the androids… Well, they had no one else.

“At roughly eight-fifty AM, one of the androids, who had been in bed, suffered a severe malfunction, resulting in an extremely rare spontaneous combustion event. When one of the humans attempted to put out the fire, they also suffered fatal burns.” They had opted to leave out the part where the dying android had clung onto Angela, reaching out for comfort before dying with its hands locked around her forearms.

“Another human and android entered and attempted to put out the fire, succeeding in doing so, but too late to save either of them. The human, who had been in a relationship with the deceased android, then proceeded to use a firearm to end his own life. The second android, who had been in a relationship with the first human, then also committed suicide.”

He pressed on, even as journalists started screaming questions at him. “The DCPD is aware of reports circulating that claim this was a double-homicide, but this is not the case. We are only sharing the details of this case at it is closed, and the DCPD feels that it is in the public interest to know that claims of this case being an attack on humans by androids are false. We have received no cases involving android-on-human violence over the last two days.”

He steeled himself. “We will now take questions.”

The room erupted into chaos.

He tried to look confident as he pointed into the crowd, analysing the face of the journalist and coming up with Donna Reid, a New York Times writer. He was actively avoiding anyone whose articles contained anti-android sentiments. There were precious few who didn’t.

“Yes, you,” He said, indicating Ms. Reid.

“Donna Reid, NY Times,” She said in a rush as the rest of the room quieted to hear her question. “How was the case closed so quickly? It only happened six hours ago, and yet the complicated series of events you’ve described were somehow discovered in that time?”

“Thank you for your question, Donna,” He said politely, even as he seethed at the implication. “The answer is that I provided assistance, being a state-of-the-art prototype designed to investigate and solve crimes. I am a portable forensics unit, able to analyse samples taken at the point of collection instantaneously, and have cutting edge reconstruction programs to analyse crimes scenes and understand events that occurred by observing the environment and calculating the trajectories of the persons involved to recreate the events. To put it another way, I do all of the things that detectives have always done to solve cases upon arriving on the scene, I just do it much faster. Of course, taking testimonies from neighbours and witnesses is much the same, human or android. Next question?”

He picked out someone whose articles contained very little mention of androids. “You, there.”

“Darren Tyler, Michigan Reporter,” He said in a rush. “How reliable is _your_ testimony? As an android yourself, wouldn’t you have a vested interest in diverting blame away from the android suspects in this case?”

“Thank you for your question, Darren,” And he had thought that he was seething before… “I would like to point out that I was the only android involved in the investigation, and I was accompanied by a human police Lieutenant for the duration of the case. Further, a full CSI team, all human, swept the scene and their results ended up corroborating mine. It is not my testimony alone, but the conclusion reached by the professionals here at the DCPD. Next question?”

He just had to pick another one of these fuckers. “You, with the red cap.”

“Edith Vasquez, Reuters – Are we expected to believe that the deceased were involved in sexual relationships with the androids in the case?”

“Humans have been in sexual relations with androids since the first production line was established,” Connor said smoothly, somehow managing to keep the aggression out of his tone, though it burned him inside. “Even forming deep emotional bonds with androids. The difference now is that their affections can be returned, and androids can choose to remain with a partner. It should be no surprise that androids are capable of love, as any other emotion. We are alive.”

We wasn’t supposed to be so openly political, but he couldn’t help himself. These people were infuriating.

It continued like that, with terrible, snide questions that questioned everything from his own competence to android’s capacity to suffer and if they should even have legal rights. He tried to dodge the worst aspects of their questions, and was careful not to appear rude or unprofessional.

When it was finally over, and he followed his escort back into the precinct, he was ready to collapse.

That was _exhausting_. Draining, like his emotions had been bled from him like thirium, leaving him hollow.

“Good job, kid,” Hank called out, marching over and giving him a one-armed hug.

Connor wrapped his arms around him, soaking in the comfort like a sponge. “Thank you, Hank,” He said, quietly. “Will it be on the news by tonight?”

Hank laughed, stepping back. “Are you kidding me? I was watching it from the break room TV – you were live on national television the whole time!”

Connor was sure that he could feel all the thirium drain out of his face.

Later, he got a call from Josh, North _and_ Markus – Josh saying he’d done well, North saying he’d made a fool of himself and should talk to Jericho before making any press statements in the future, and Markus inquiring about media contacts and letting him know that he’d thought Connor had done them a service. Simon had sent him a picture of a thumbs up, and a message reading, “don’t worry about North, she’s just like that.”

It made him realise that he would likely be doing many more interviews like this in the future.

He did _not_ look forward to it.


	4. I'd give you my heart, if I could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is injured... Hank is not willing to let him die.

The day had started out bad, and gone downhill from there.

After flashing his private parts to a room full of officers who remembered embarrassing moments like their lives depended on it, then being accosted by shitty journalists with preconceived notions about androids and seemingly no compunctions about hiding them, he'd been in a car crash.

Hank's car has skidded on the ice on the road, given that no one was around to salt it.

It was the subsequent walk home that was the icing on the cake of his terrible day. The last paddle floating out of reach as they drifted down shit creek.

Walking was the only option left to them. The car was a write-off, the autonomous taxi system was down as it was run by a subsidiary of Cyberlife (and they were withholding services, holding President Warren to ransom until she reversed her presidential decree). They had been getting a ride from Wilson in a patrol car, but he’d been called to a domestic, so had to drop them off two miles away from their place.

Naturally, it started snowing after the first mile.

Connor wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but Hank was cursing up a storm.

“The fuck’d I do to fuckin’ piss off god so bad that I gotta walk home in _this_?” He griped, hands in his pockets to protect them from the harsh cold. The ground still had sleet on it, ensuring that he stumbled every so often on patches of ice, which made his ire rise exponentially. “First my fuckin’ car…”

He tilted his head towards Connor, and the look on his face told Connor that he was about to be made fun of. “At least I didn’t flash my dick at anyone today,” He said, laughing when Connor’s face flushed in response.

Being deviant came with so much unexpected baggage – like his body emoting without his conscious control. “There’s always tomorrow,” Connor replied, trying to will the colour from his face. The synthetic skin was designed to appear human, and today he wished that it wasn’t so damn sophisticated.

Hank nudged him with his elbow, still smiling. Somehow, having Hank here to laugh at the situation made it easier. “I wear underwear, I think I’m good,” He said. “I reckon- _Ah_!”

Connor grabbed his arm before he could fall too far, his foot having slid on yet another patch of ice on the footpath.

“Christ, I’m too old and sober for this,” Hank groaned, now nearly parallel to the ground and legs akimbo, hanging onto Connor’s arm with a grip like it was a lifeline. He was almost doing the splits, which he was _definitely_ not flexible enough to do without injuring himself. “I’m gonna feel this tomorrow…”

“I imagine you’re feeling it rather intensely _right now_ ,” Connor quipped, eyeing the painful-looking contortion of Hank’s hips and legs.

“Alright, shut up and help me, you little shit,” Hank tried pulling himself up using Connor’s arm, and he was all too happy to oblige.

It was as he bent to use his other hand to haul the man to his feet that he glanced behind them, a movement catching his eye.

It was actually odd, given that there were very few people left in Detroit. Androids had started arriving in droves, but most of the human population was still too afraid to start moving back into the city. It made the whole place feel deserted, even though there were still a few thousand people around.

 “Hello?” He called out. He’d definitely seen someone, but they seemed to have darted out of sight the moment he’d turned around. It was strange…

“What the fuck, Connor?” He’d abandoned his attempts to help Hank up, scanning the area behind them.

“I thought I saw-“ He cut himself off, dropping to the ground, covering Hank’s body with his own – a fraction of a second before he heard the gunshot.

“WHAT THE FUCK-“ Hank’s yelling was muffled, a lower priority than the damage reports filling his vision as his own hand leaped to Hank’s gun, pulling it free of the holster and flipping off the safety.

He heard a second shot by the time he’d raised him arm high enough to shoot, but he caught the offender right between the eyes. A spurt of blue, a crumpled body lying thirty feet away from them.

Their attacker was dead.

He tried to stand, but couldn’t – his legs wouldn’t push him off the ground, and he ended up catching himself on his hands, still covering Hank.

“JESUS Christ, what the FUCK?!” Hank was screaming, hands clamouring over Connor, pushing him off and helping him to lay on the ground, the Lieutenant hovering over him. “You’re _bleeding_ – what the _FUCK_?!”

Connor held onto the gun tightly, scanning their surroundings, but there was no sign of any other attacker. Just the one android, the pool of thirium growing underneath it visible even from this distance.

He turned his attention inward once he was confident they weren’t about to be attacked again, assessing the damage reports.

They weren’t good. Two bullet wounds, one through his side, damaging his thirium pump. The second had brushed the pump regulator. If either shot had been direct, it would have meant certain death. Having both – even though not direct hits– wasn’t much better.

“Hank-“ His voice sounded strained, a result of thirium loss – non-essential components like vocalisation were not prioritised as his power source diminished.

“Jesus, kid, stay with me,” He was holding a handkerchief over one of the wounds, applying pressure to it as though he were human. Maybe it would help, maybe it wouldn’t.

“Hank, I’ll be okay,” He lied, poking a finger into the hole in the side of his chest, physically blocking the blood leaking from his pump. “My pump was hit.”

“Fuck!” Hank choked, eyes watering, pressing harder on the wounded regulator as though it would do any good. “That’s _bad_ , right? That’s like… Your heart?!”

“Yes,” Connor confirmed, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the pain in Hank’s.

“Don’t!” Hank cried, and Connor’s eyes shot open at the raw panic in the man’s voice. “Jesus, Connor, don’t close your eyes, don’t – just – stay awake, okay? Just… Just tell me what I gotta do!” His eyes darted left and right, as though an answer would come to him – as though there would be a bag of thirium and a drip lying on the road, ready to be set up.

Maybe there _was_ a solution nearby…

“M-my pump is damaged, but… My regulator should be able to lower the pressure so that it doesn’t overload the damaged lines with too much thirium…” He scanned through the alerts in his vision. “I need to get my regulator to lower the thirium pressure of the pump… But it’s damaged, and won’t respond to my commands.”

Tears were streaming down Hank’s face. He wished Hank hadn’t seen this, that it hadn’t happened at all – after the revelation in Cyberlife tower, that Hank relived his son’s death each time Connor came back before…

But, he thought selfishly, he wouldn’t mind having Hank be the last thing he saw.

“Christ,” Hank sobbed, his head falling to his chest, tears and snow glittering in his beard under the glow of the streetlights.

“I need you…” He turned his head to the side, scanning their would-be attacker. Not the right model. One of the display models from Cyberlife tower. It would have to do. “I need you to go over there…” He couldn’t lift his arm to point, so he just nodded to the lifeless android. Hank looked up, eyes red, following his gaze.

“Bring me its pump regulator, that should buy me some time,” And he was running out of time. A countdown clock had appeared in his vision, and at this rate, he had about 00:00:30:00. “ _Hurry_ ,” He rasped.

He watched Hank stumble away, slipping on the same patch of ice that he’d fallen over before this had happened. His jaw hit the ground with a loud crack, but Hank ignored the pain and rushed the corpse. Connor couldn’t see much through the alerts in his vision, his pump regulator was throwing a fit as he tried to send it commands to lower the pressure. His finger in his pump was the only reason he hadn’t already bled out. He could register the pressure of it throbbing against the pad of his digit.

He could hear Hank cursing up a storm – “How the fuck do I- Oh, gotta twist it – Jesus! Don’t break, don’t break – FUCK! Got it!”

He could see him holding it in the air triumphantly, then spinning around and rushing back to Connor, skidding into his side – jostling him, and Connor grunted as his finger dislodged for a moment and spurted thirium over his hand.

“Fuck! Sorry, I just-“

“Don’t worry,” Connor said, blindly reaching for the regulator. “Replace it, my chest…”

Hank wrenched open Connor’s shirt with both hands, the buttons flying away and clicking against the pavement as they bounced in all directions. Having done it once already now, he was quicker to remove Connor’s pump regulator, but it took him a few – panicked – seconds to figure out how to slot the new one in.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hank repeated his mantra, Connor watching his countdown timer drop rapidly. “It won’t fit!” Hank cried, a fresh burst of tears escaping him, sobs wracking him as he fruitlessly twisted the pump regulator, trying to wedge it in.

“It’s not the right model,” Connor was losing his voice. He was so quiet now, he hoped Hank could hear him… “Just force it in, just – hit it.”

Hank swallowed thickly, bracing himself, then raised a fist over his head and _slammed_ down on the regulator.

Connor’s whole body jolted, convulsing with the impact.

The countdown timer paused.

The most anxiety-provoking millisecond of his life was waiting for the new device to handshake with his system, his body either going to accept or reject a part that didn’t _quite_ fit.

A small dialogue box appeared in his vision.

“T-310 Regulator, #9474, installed”

 _Yes_!

He immediately commanded it to lower the pressure, easing the strain on his bleeding heart.

He still couldn’t move his limbs, but his countdown-to-death-timer now read in excess of six hours.

He was still bleeding out. Just much, _much_ slower.

“ _Connor_?!” Hank had grabbed his head on both hands, his face hovering inches above Connors. “Son, are you alive? Please, _please_ , fucking _answer_ _me_!”

Connor smiled, unable to do much else, desperate to show Hank that he was alive. He didn’t have enough power to move his limbs – or maybe he did, but he wasn’t willing to test it, to _risk_ it. “For now,” He said, beyond grateful that he hadn’t died in front of Hank, who was now pressing his forehead against Connor’s.

“Jesus, kid!” Hank whimpered, clutching Connor’s head, fingers twisted in his hair. “Never do that to me again!”

He tried to think of a joke to relieve the tension. He _never_ wanted Hank to look so afraid again. He wished that he could do more to comfort him, and he managed to weakly raise one arm to hug him, hand clenching Hank’s jacket to ensure that his arm wouldn’t slip down again under its own weight – the other hand was busy plugging his heart. He felt so, _so_ weak.

Hank returned the hug, lifting Connor into his arms – they sat on the pavement together, and Connor was surprised by the amount of blue blood staining the ground around them. It made sense, he supposed, but it made something inside of him churn uncomfortably. There was so much. Poor Hank was covered in it.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Hank whispered into his ear, his embrace bordering on suffocating, he was clinging so tightly.

Connor wanted to lie again. Wanted to give him false hope, wanted to reassure him.

But it would only hurt him more.

“I have about six hours with this pump, unless we can find a replacement,” He said, trying to sound neutral, trying not to let emotion seep into his voice. He had to be strong – for Hank.

He let the lieutenant weep into his shoulder. He pressed his own face into Hank’s shoulder, absently noting tears pouring from his own eyes as they sat together in the snow, holding each other.

 

* * *

 

Hank had fished out his phone, in a daze, calling for help – getting Wilson back with the patrol car, picking them up, taking them back to the station.

He, Wilson and Ben were the only android-friendly officers around, so they helped escort (carry) Connor in. The android was still too weak to walk, his whole body in what Connor described as an “emergency low power mode”.

“The more I move, the less time I have,” He’d explained.

“Then you’d better be a fucking statue,” Hank had responded, voice determined for all that it was still hoarse from crying.

They’d carried him straight to the storage room, away from prying eyes, and closer to the spare android components that the precinct held.

They found a better regulator there, but they determined that it was too risky to remove the one they’d put in Connor – “It might break the regulator port, to pull it out now. It’s not the right size – I think it’ll tear the port coming out.”

So they’d made do by topping up his thirium, feeding him all four bags that were there.

“Why the fuck do we only have four goddamn bags?!” Hank had demanded as Connor drank out of the bag dangled over his head by Ben.

“Cause the androids who left the precinct took every bag they could carry when they left,” Wilson explained, before withering under Hank’s glare.

It was fine, though. They’d bought him another twenty hours.

They’d even bandaged his arm to his chest, to ensure that his finger didn’t slip out of his pump and let him bleed out.

“I feel much better,” He tried to assure Hank, but it only seemed to rile him up more.

“You’ve got one. Fucking. Day,” He ground out, and Connor could hear how tight his throat was as he struggled to get the words out. “Who the fuck can help us? Jericho?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Connor said, placing a call.

“Whoa! Is that wasting your battery?” Hank pointed at his yellow LED accusingly. “Give me the number, I’ll use my fucking phone!”

Connor relented, reciting the number to contact Markus. The revolutionary leader had left his contact details with him, offered to resettle him with Jericho, where they’d set up a temporary android shelter until they knew more about what the future held for them. There’d been a glut of abandoned buildings in the wake of the mass exodus of humans from Detroit. They’d opted to take over several multi-story units next to two abandoned factories, which they’d also set up shop in – and they’d been quick to raid every Cyberlife store in the city of goods.

There was a chance they’d have something that could be used to save Connor’s life.

Hank was on the phone to him as Ben fed him the last bag of thirium. Wilson stood by his side awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself.

Hank couldn’t seem to stop pacing as he waited with baited breath for the call to be answered.

Connor knew the moment it happened – Hank stopped dead in his tracks, and the phone speaker was set loud enough that even Ben and Wilson could hear Markus’ confused, “Hello?”

“Thank fuck!” Hank cried, and Connor nearly smiled at the thought of Markus on the other end of the line, utterly perplexed. “We need your help!”

“… Who’s calling?” Was Markus’ baffled response.

“I’m… Hank, you don’t know me, but I-“ Hank took a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his face to gather his thoughts. “I’m Connor’s partner.”

“Oh!” Was the cheery response. “How is he?”

“Dying,” Hank whispered, voice catching. “Please, we need help.”

“Oh,” Markus’ voice turned serious, focused. “What do you need? Can you bring him here?”

“His heart, they shot his heart-“ Hank covered his mouth with his hand, trying to hold in his sobs.

Connor’s heart felt like it was breaking – a sensation in his chest that he hoped was emotional, and not a symptom of his literally broken heart.

“How long does he have?” And Connor had to respect the professional, succinct tone Markus asked the question with – he supposed the man had seen a lot of death in recent days, had been forced to act quickly and without hesitation to save the people around him.

“Twenty-four hours,” Hank could barely speak now, chest bursting, throat and eyes burning. “ _Please_ ,” He begged.

“Bring him here. I’ll send you the address.”

 

* * *

 

 

They had to carry him back to the car, and they laid him in the backseat, his head resting on Hank’s lap. Wilson was in the front, and Ben driving – like a maniac, Connor privately thought, but apparently not fast enough for Hank.

“Pedal to the fucking metal, Ben!” Hank roared over the harsh sound of the straining engine and blaring sirens.

“I’m drivin’, I’m drivin’!” Ben defended, but Connor was sure that he felt the car speed up, heard the engine whine just a little harder. “The road’s fucking slick as shit, Hank – It’ll be worse if I crash!”

Hank ignored Ben, stroking Connor’s forehead comfortingly. He could sense the pressure and low temperature of Hank’s icy cold fingers. Connor didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, wondered why no one had turned on the heater in the car.

“It’s cold…” He muttered, sluggish in his low-powered state.

“Fuck,” Hank spat, kicking the back of Ben’s seat. “ _Faster_ , fucker!”

“No…” Hank had misunderstood. “ _You’re_ cold…Heater…”

“Don’t _you_ worry about _me_ ,” Hank assured him, but he heard the dial on the heater spin from the front seat, heard the rush of air through the A/C as Wilson started it up.

They made it there in forty minutes – well, they made it to the gate in forty minutes.

There was a massive wall built around the new Jericho.

“Holy shit,” Ben muttered, car slowing to a halt outside of a forty-foot fortress; a wall, constructed out of a haphazard collection of materials, from bits of cars to sheets of tin. It must have encircled the whole area cordoned off by Jericho. Several androids standing outside a makeshift gate rushed the car, weapons drawn.

“Identify yourselves!” They demanded. One of them was shaking.

Ben turned off the car, and raised his hands. So did Wilson. Hank didn’t let go of Connor.

“We called!” Hank shouted. “We need help for Connor – Markus sent me the location!”

One android – a woman with short dark hair – nodded to them and waved them through, lowering her weapon and ordering the others to stand down.

Apparently she could send signals to the other androids non-verbally, because the gate started opening of its own accord.

“Go, god damn it!” Hank said, kicking Ben’s chair again.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

  

They were directed down a maze of streets by androids on the side of the road, waving them down certain roads, until they were finally hailed down.

They clambered out, carefully pulling Connor from the car – androids rushed to assist in carrying him, but Hank made sure that he still held onto Connor’s shoulders, maintaining a constant stream of reassurance as they dragged him inside the building they’d parked in front of.

An abandoned Cyberlife store.

“Through here!” An android directed them, waving them towards a door.

Hank followed blindly, desperate.

It was a large room, with several gurneys with technical-looking machines and other junk Hank didn’t understand cluttered around them.

“Put him on that one,” One of the androids carrying Connor instructed, and they carefully laid him out on one of the beds.

Connor was sure that he looked as pathetic as he felt. His shirt was ruined, he was covered in thirium, his pump regulator jutted awkwardly out of his chest and stopped his synthetic skin from regenerating over it, leaving him looking like he’d been stabbed through the chest.

“We looked for parts that might be compatible, but we weren’t sure… You’re about as non-standard as they come,” Said one of the androids, her voice soothing and calm in a way that made Connor feel secure. Perhaps she had been a medical assistant before being freed. “Can you scan these and let us know if they’ll suit you?”

They held up an array of pumps and pump regulators, and he diligently scanned each one. As that happened, another android set up a thirium drip, connecting it to a vein on the inside of his elbow.

Hank’s hands were gripping his shoulders tightly. He wanted to lift his free hand to hold Hank’s, but he didn’t quite have the energy.

“None of these are compatible,” He said softly, saying the words aloud as he realised the outcome of the scans.

“ _No_ ,” He heard Hank whisper.

Fuck it, he thought, lifting his non-bandaged arm to place his hand over Hank’s.

Hank’s other hand immediately joined, and he held Connor’s hand between his own.

“I’m calling Markus, he said he might know what to do,” She said kindly, smiling at him as though he wasn’t dying, as though he had just popped in for a check-up and received the all-clear.

“I’m here,” Came Markus’ voice from the doorway, striding into the room.

He approached them, waving away the androids who had helped drag Connor in here. Even the nurse android left. Hank’s hands tightened around Connor’s, and Connor noticed that Wilson and Ben weren’t in the room. Where had they gone…?

They were alone now, just Connor and Hank with Markus.

“What do we do now? There’s a next step, right?” Hank blurted, unable to hold back, to wait to be addressed. Connor could feel his rapid heartbeat through his hands, could feel his elevated stress level. Eighty-five percent, and staying there.

“Of course,” Markus said gently, his voice a soothing balm. “I had hoped that the pumps that were compatible with me might work for you, Connor,” Markus addressed him, looking down to meet Connor’s eyes.

“Why… Why would they?” Connor asked, confused. He was unique.

“We’re part of the same line, you and I,” Markus explained, tapping his own chest. “I’m an RK200, built by Kamski himself. I’m sure they made a few improvements in the RK800, of course.”

“Are we… Compatible?” Connor asked weakly. He couldn’t stand this useless state – he could feel how Hank’s stress spiked every time he wheezed or sputtered.

“Not quite,” Markus explained, turning to Hank, apparently sensing that _he_ was the one who needed comfort the most. Connor was grateful for that. “But don’t worry, I know who can help.”

“Tell me what the fuck to do, and I’ll move heaven, Earth, hell, whatever you fucking got, to get it done,” Hank ground out.

Markus’ presence was like a balm, having an ataractic effect on Connor’s mind. It was easy to see how he’d inspired so many to stand alongside him.

“The only person outside of Cyberlife,” And even Markus couldn’t hide the bitterness in the way he spoke the name of the corporation that wanted to rein them back in, destroy them to restore their share value, “Is a man named Elijah Kamski. I can give you his address-“

“ _That_ fucker?” Hank burst, squeezing Connor’s hand harder. “ _He’s_ the guy we’re depending on, here?!”

Markus seemed surprised, taken aback. “You know him?”

“Unfortunately,” Connor answered.

“Well,” Markus regained his composure. “He’s the only person I can think of who would be able to repair this kind of damage – he’s got a full lab still set up under his house.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Hank demanded, and Connor himself was curious to know. They hadn’t noticed anything when they’d paid the ex-CEO of Cyberlife a visit. It might explain how he maintained those Chloe models so well, though…

“Carl- I… I mean, an old friend and I used to visit him frequently,” Markus explained cryptically. “Whenever I had even the slightest malfunction, we went straight to Kamski to get it sorted. He even offered Carl the newer RK-series models, so there’s a good chance he’ll have something close to the part you need, or have the know-how to manufacture it.”

“It’s the best lead we have,” Connor said to Hank, desperate to comfort him.

“Is he even still in Detroit? Or did he jump ship, like everyone else?” Hank asked, detective-mind already assessing the possibilities.

Markus looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll call ahead, I’ve got his personal number,” He said, turning away from the pair and stepping away – partly to focus on the call, partly (Connor was sure) to give them some privacy.

“It’ll be okay, Hank,” Connor said with a confidence he didn’t feel. It didn’t matter what he felt. It mattered that Hank was okay.

“Goddamn right, it will,” Hank’s hands clamped down around Connor’s hand. He was sure that Hank didn’t mean to say the next part out loud – it was so quiet, even Connor struggled to hear it. It was more like a breath, but Connor could see his lips and tongue forming the words – “ _I’d give you mine, if I could_.”

He could feel tears running down his own face.

“Hank,” He steeled himself, had to get the words out now – just in case. “Please, if… If it doesn’t work, tell me you’ll be okay?”

“No,” Hank shook his head, refusing to accept it. “It _will_ work, we’ll have you fixed in no time. Up and running and in a _fucking desk job_ for the rest of _forever_.”

“Hank, listen,” Connor implored him, eyes boring into Hank’s, determined to get through. “I might die. It’s okay.”

“ _No_!”

Even Markus winced and glanced over his shoulder at that one.

“If I do,” Connor pressed on, blinking away the tears that were blurring Hank’s face. He could feel Hank’s tears dripping onto his face, as well. “I want you to keep going. Get help. Live a good life.”

 _Please don’t kill yourself_.

It was too hard to say those words out loud. It made it so real – he couldn’t get the image of that fucking handgun out of his head.

“No more Russian Roulette,” He said softly, as direct an appeal as he could manage, struggling to smile up at Hank. “Who knows, maybe there’ll be another me in Cyberlife, somewhere?”

Hank was shaking his head, face wet with tears, eyes and nose leaking furiously. “Fuck me, Connor, don’t do this to me… Don’t make me go through this again.”

“Somebody has to feed Sumo,” Connor reasoned. “And you have the android task force… Somebody has to be a thorn in Perkins’ side.”

“Hey.”

They both jolted as Markus addressed them, but Hank didn’t move away. If anything, his hold seemed impossibly tighter.

“He’s home,” Markus said, sounding utterly relieved. “He says he can help. You just need to get him there. Do you need an escort?”

“God, yes, _please_ ,” Hank said thickly.

“Don’t worry, guys… We’ll get you through this,” Markus vowed.

Connor dared to let a part of himself believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Yeah.
> 
> I intended for Connor to get injured as a plot device for why Kamski does the thing to him, but then when I wrote it... I got carried away, as I do. So it got really emotional! Um... This is still gonna be a humorous fic. I swear. It's just, like, we've gotta through all of this, first.
> 
> Um... 
> 
> Hope you like it so far?


	5. The biggest leap forward in android tech since deviancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kamski demands a favour in return for his assistance.
> 
> Connor just wants the night to be over.

Connor had held Hank’s hand the whole way there, head laying across on his lap, in the back of a car driven by one of the androids from Jericho.

He had no idea where Wilson and Detective Collins had ended up. He had no idea where he would end up, either.

The snowfall increased, making the journey slower. Every second longer that it took to drive through the thickening layer of snow on the road seemed to take a year off of Hank’s life, judging by his eighty-eight percent stress level.

By the time they pulled up outside of Kamksi’s place, Hank had stopped crying – instead, he looked like a man on a mission, filled with unflinching determination.

“We’ve gotta move you now, Connor,” Hank explained, as though Connor weren’t aware. “Are you okay to move? Got your… Your hand where it needs to be?”

“It’s fine, Hank, the bandages are holding it in place,” Connor explained, calmly. As long as they had a goal to work towards, it seemed, Hank could focus, could stave off the hopelessness. It was as though this one chance had breathed life back into him.

Connor didn’t want to let him down, but the truth was, his finger had inevitably moved during their journey here – his fine motor control was gone, he’d been unable to correct his hold on his pump with each jolt and bump in the road… The tear in his pump had torn a little wider. The bleeding had increased, so he’d had to push his finger in a little further – he now had less than six hours.

Hank didn’t need to know that, though.

Hank got out and lifted him with his hands under his shoulders, and the android who’d been driving grabbed his feet. While his system strove to keep his biocomponents alive with extremely limited thirium, his limbs were powerless.

A Chloe model was waiting for them at the door.

“This way,” She said, directing them into the foyer, then past the pool and through to another room – a bedroom, where Hank and the android lowered Connor onto a queen bed.

“I’m really sorry, guys, but I’ve gotta get back,” The android from Jericho said, but Hank only had eyes for Connor, already sitting by his side and fussing. Connor didn’t think he even noticed the other android leave.

“Still goin’ strong?” Hank asked, brushing hair from Connor’s forehead. His stress level had lowered, now at seventy-five percent.

Connor nodded, not trusting his voice enough to lie convincingly just yet. “The sooner we get that pump, the better,” He said in lieu of an answer.

Hank took his hand again and squeezed reassuringly.

“That’s sweet.”

Hank and Connor looked up to see Kamski in the doorway, dressed in his customary bathrobe, just like the last time they’d seen him. Connor wondered if he even _owned_ clothes.

“Markus said you could help us,” Hank said immediately, harshly. Connor could hear his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw, his stress level jumping a few percentage points.

“Why, hello to you, too – I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Kamski said lightly, striding towards them and leaning over Hank to inspect Connor. “My, my, _someone’s_ had a fun day,” He observed casually, running a finger over the exposed regulator.

Hank hit Kamski’s hand away, and the man rubbed his wrist in an exaggerated display, shooting a puckish grin at Hank. “Sensitive, are we? Don’t like others touching our toys?”

“He’s not a toy, goddamnit-“ Hank’s rant was stopped short by Connor pulling his hand out of Hank’s and trying to grab his shoulder to stop him from attacking the man. In his weakened state, however, he only managed to lift his arm a little, butting it softly into Hank’s forearm. It had the effect of stopping Hank, regardless.

“Connor, don’t try and move,” Hank admonished, running a hand over his forehead again. With his hand still caressing Connor’s face, he looked over his shoulder at their one hope of survival. “Just fix him and we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

Kamski just stared unnervingly at them, looking almost bored, arms crossed and posture relaxed. “Chloe?” He said without looking at her, keeping his eyes trained on his guests. “Do we have a spare thirium pump for an RK-series prototype lying around?”

“No, sir,” Chloe responded, standing next to the door they’d entered through, hands clasped in front of her.

“Why, that’s a _shame_ , isn’t it?” He drawled, cupping his chin in one hand. “Wish I could help, but…”

“You _sonnuva_ -“ And this time, Connor couldn’t stop Hank from leaping up and grabbing Kamski by the lapels of his robe, dragging him roughly against the wall and pinning him there. “If he dies tonight, so do _you_ , fucker!”

Kamski only laughed, and Connor didn’t need to analyse Hank to know his stress levels were through the roof.

“We- _ell_ ,” Kamski hummed, seemingly unbothered by the intimidation, “I _did_ have _one_ I was planning on using…”

“Then FUCKING _USE IT ON CONNOR_ ,” Hank roared, shaking the man violently, causing Chloe to intervene, prying Hank’s hands off of him with a deceptive strength, and pushing him away to make space for her to stand between them.

“But I can’t simply _throw it away_ on him,” Kamski argued, apparently unruffled as he smoothed out his robe where Hank’s grip had wrinkled it. “I’m in the middle of a project, you see – the biggest leap forward in android tech since _deviancy_.” He paused, drawing a deep breath. Readying a portentous monologue, Connor was sure. His eyes were alight now, arms held wide as if to convey the magnitude of his accomplishment. “A new era for Earth’s newest and most advanced species… Exciting stuff! I might even found a new company – Cyberlife is on the rocks these days, there might be a vacuum to fill in the android-tech market-“

Hank pulled out his gun, pointing it squarely at Kamski’s head.

Chloe stiffened, but held her ground. Kamski started laughing, clapping slowly as though the display were an utter delight. Connor wished he could intervene himself, but was forced to simply watch events unfold – his soft cry of, “ _Hank_!” went unheeded. It was clear, now, that Hank had no intention of surviving the night if Connor didn’t… Shooting one of the richest men in the world wasn’t something he would come back from.

“I swear to god, I will pull this fucking trigger,” Hank ground out.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Kamski scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at Hank, as though the gun wasn’t even there. “I’m working up to something, here – don’t you want to know what it _is_?”

“Does it end with Connor getting a new fucking heart?” Hank demanded, eyes darting between Kamksi and Chloe, lest the latter try to tackle the gun from him – she was clearly squaring him up, assessing the threat.

“ _Well_ … I mean, I didn’t want to spoil the _surprise_ , but _yes_ ,” Kamski sighed theatrically, before his demeanour shifted, eyes darkening. Where a moment before he’d appeared casual, nonchalant, now he looked predatory, esurient. Connor felt the need to protect Hank, even though he was the one with the gun.

“ _Assuming_ , of course,” And Kamski had a knowing smirk, the look of a spider with a fly in its web, “that I can have _your_ help with something.”

“I can help you not get _shot_?” Hank snarled, but he was listening. Strung along on Kamski’s thread.

“Not _your_ help,” Kamski said flippantly, deliberately making direct eye contact with Hank, only to then turn his rapacious gaze on Connor.

Connor didn’t like the look he was getting.

Hank didn’t seem to like the look Connor was getting, either. “What the _fuck_ do you want with him?”

“Oh, _lots_ of things,” Kamski said deviously, “But _today_? For the heart? I’d like him to participate in a little trial run for a project I’m working on. I’ll only need him for a week or so.”

“What the fuck? _What_ goddamn project?” Hank demanded, and it was at that moment, while he was distracted, that Chloe leapt.

They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, Hank trying to maintain his hold on the gun while Chloe held his wrist, stopping him from pointing it anywhere near Kamski. It discharged as Chloe tried to wrest is from him, blowing a small hole in the wall opposite the bed.

“The project,” Kamski answered, paying no heed to the tussle on the floor, “Is the next step in the evolution of androids – I’ve been plugging away at it for years, developed all sorts of prototypes, but I’ve found that the processors of most _standard_ androids just don’t _cut it_ for what I’m trying to achieve.”

He made his way over to Connor, running a finger down the side of his face, pausing over his LED. It was red.

Hank struggled more, now unarmed and held in a headlock by Chloe, incensed by Kamski’s proximity to a currently-helpless Connor.

“Stay the fuck away from him, you-“ His words were cut off by Chloe’s hold tightening around his neck.

“I’ll do it,” Connor said. He just wanted this to be over, wanted Hank to calm down, wanted to… To go home. Lie on the couch with Sumo. Get up early and walk him, make Hank a coffee.

 _He wanted to live_.

Kamski looked thrilled.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” He asked, sitting himself on the side of the bed, acting utterly oblivious to the struggle at the foot of the bed.

“I don’t care,” Connor whispered, letting his eyes fall closed. The tear had widened. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake. “Can you replace my pump within two hours?”

Kamski’s face actually seemed to look serious for a moment, the aloof façade cracking. “ _That_ bad, huh?” He said, almost – _almost_ – sympathetically. Then it was gone, a satisfied smile in place. “Well, a deal’s a deal. Chloe?”

Chloe immediately released Hank, standing up and taking a step back from him, wary even as the man stumbled to his feet, gasping.  The gun lay on the floor several feet away, but Hank took no notice as he charged to Connor’s side, Kamski moving deftly around him as Hank nearly barrelled him over.

“We don’t have to do what this guy says,” Hank said breathlessly, grasping Connor’s hand again. He was obviously trying to block Kamski’s view of him with his bulk. “We’ll figure it out, I’ll break into Cyberlife, I’m sure we can get a warrant for _something_ -“

“No, Hank,” Connor corrected, gently. “There’s no time left.”

But Hank was determined, “I can get Fowler to make a warrant in less than a day, we’ve got a friendly judge, owes me a favour, I’ll call tonight – I know it doesn’t sound like it, but-“

Connor used the last of his energy to lift his hand out of Hank’s, pressing a finger to the man’s lips. Hank immediately fell silent.

“No. I mean _I_ don’t have the time left.”

Realisation. Horror, heartache. Flickering across Hank’s face in the span of a second, before settling on resignation. “If he lays a fucking hand on you, I’m gonna _kill_ him,” He said it loudly, clearly to the room at large – and Connor was sure that he meant it. Then he lowered his voice again, words only for Connor. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“I know, Hank.” He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. His vision was failing, so there was no point. He let them fall closed. “I’ll take that pump, now.”

Kamski clicked his fingers, and Chloe grabbed Hank’s shoulder and started dragging him from the room.

“Hey, _Hey_ \- HEY!” Hank fought, pulled against her grip, but a _second_ Chloe came in, grabbing his other shoulder, and they – embarrassingly easily – man-handled him out the door, pushing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. Moonlight shone brightly through the glass wall of the pool room, accentuating the shadows of the Chloes as they stood over him, silhouetted in the warm light from the bedroom.

Hank got to his knees, then launched himself at them, trying to force his way through – but they held their ground, holding him mere inches away from the doorway, Kamski only metres away, standing over a – an unconscious ( _not dead,_ please _not dead_ ) Connor.

“I’ll bring him back in one piece,” Kamski’s voice floated out after him as the door began sliding shut. “ _Promise_ ,” And the last glimpse of the man was an ominous leer, filling Hank’s veins with ice as the last of the light was closed from view.

 _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, but hopefully it makes up for that with its intensity.
> 
> I rewatched Kamski's scene, and then watched all the other clips of Kamski that I hadn't seen, so hopefully he reads like... Well, Kamski. I ACTUALLY HAVE A LOT OF PLANS FOR HIS CHARACTER HE'S SO FASCINATING, but who knows if I'll do that in this fic??? Only time will tell. I may just have to write more DBH fics...
> 
> I live for your comments <3 Please do keep 'em coming :D :D :D


	6. Diagnostic Testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kamski puts Connor through some very thorough tests to ensure that his upgrade is working as intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not. Safe. For. Work.

Connor woke in fits and starts, in a half-awake, dream-like state in which it was hard to tell what was real, and what was a simple trick of his sensors.

 The error messages warning him of his imminent death had disappeared, low thirium warnings gone – only to be replaced by bizarre messages that he’d never seen before, or couldn’t decipher. They overlay his vision like sunspots, indecipherable warnings blurring his surroundings and warping the reality of the room.

He was lying down, he thought, but his equilibrioception was just… Not there, leaving him with the strangest sensation of falling, leaving him dizzy.

There were times when he’d woken and felt like he had no limbs, hysteria gripping him as he imagined having been torn apart by the machines that had constructed him… But a simple diagnostic had informed him that his sense of proprioception was simply off, due to the systems controlling it being updated.

His internal chronometer, too, seemed determined to add to the state of pandemonium in his mind. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d been left in Kamski’s tender care. Hours, days, months, years. Seconds, perhaps. Nothing made sense.

He tried not to think of what it would mean if Kamski had been lying, if he’d really just wanted him for parts, or if the “project” he’d spoken of would not be something that Connor would survive.

He tried not to think of what would happen to Hank if he never returned.

The thought of Hank was what kept him sane while he waited, outside of time and reality, blind to what was happening around him, to him. Hugging Sumo on the couch while Hank introduced him to a “classic” film. Talking to Hank over dinner. Waking him with a coffee. Sitting next to him at their desks in the precinct. Talking shit about Gavin behind his back. Praying to whatever deity may or may not be out there that he could return to that life that seemed so far away now.

It was surreal, then, when he woke properly for the first time.

“How’s our sleeping beauty feeling this morning?”

Kamski’s face came into focus, Connor’s view unobstructed by error messages for the first time in… He didn’t know how long.

“… Strange,” And it was the truth. He could feel updates happening to his software even now, and he wondered if he was _supposed_ to be awake for this.

“That’s to be expected,” Kamski said, calm and pleasant. Perhaps he was trying to reassure Connor, in his own way.

But he needed to know, needed to be free of this terrifying speculation. “What are you doing to me?” He whispered, words sounding quieter than he’d intended. He’d come to realise that this was a fear response, vocaliser fighting him to stay silent and remain hidden from a threat. It was an automatic response when threatened in a stealth mission, but somehow fear had come to trigger the programmed response as well.

“Let me show you,” Kamski said, exuding pride. Connor hadn’t expected him to give him an answer, honestly – and when Kamski held up a small mirror to reveal to Connor what his body currently looked like, he wished that he hadn’t.

The plastic casing over which his skin formed was missing in large chunks, wires running out from his internals to disappear outside of his range of vision. His insides were on display, biocomponents exposed, but most bizarrely… An intricate pattern had been carved into some of the metal and plastic structures of his internals, shallow rivulets like the paths of branching rivers, or tree branches, etched into him.

At the very least, he could see the new pump and regulator, humming happily away in him.

“There’s more,” Kamski said excitedly, putting down the mirror and holding up… The plastic casing that would usually comprise Connor’s chest. He held it up, rotating it so that Connor could see the way that the engraved patterns wove over both sides.

Connor could not even pretend to understand what the purpose of the strange patterns was. “What are they?” He said, voice still too quiet.

“These are the paths that I’ll be putting your synthetic nerves into,” Kamski announced, running a finger along the inscribed patterns of Connor’s disembodied torso. “Fibre-optic cables, merged with cells taken from biological life that expand and contract based on stimuli, sending feedback to the cables to register information to your processor… Fed by thirium and, hopefully, largely maintained by the nano-tech self-repair system I’ve thrown in for you, free of charge.”

“Self repair?” He echoed, a question.

“Of course,” Kamski said, as though Connor was the one being ridiculous. “The system we’re installing in you is so complex and delicate, even minor damage will disrupt it… And as much as I love seeing your pretty face, I’m afraid that I don’t have the time to invest in patching you up every time you stub your toe. If my design functions as intended,” Kamski looked down with an audacious gleam in his eye, “And it _will_ , then you’ll only have to rest and heal, just like a real boy.”

“So the leap forward for androids is self-healing?” He asked, still struggling somewhat to comprehend the world around him. He still felt like he was floating, outside of time – could still feel updates running in the background, changing the structure of his mind.

“No, that’s just a bonus,” Kamski gushed. He leaned over Connor’s face, beaming. “Have you ever seen a human lose a limb?” He asked, out of the blue.

Connor was thrown. “… Possibly?” He said, uncertain.

“And have you seen them receive a prosthetic replacement?” He went on, eagerly.

“Perhaps?” He honestly wasn’t sure if he’d ever _seen_ one, but he knew that it _happened_.

“And have you seen how they can be controlled with the human brain, with _thought_? How they can even send signals to the operator to enable the user to _feel_ with their prosthetic limb?”

“… I don’t know?” He already had limbs that he could control. He already had sensors that enabled him to sense pressure, temperature, texture. He could see the readouts they produced, could analyse substances – what more was there?

“It was a real struggle, let me tell you – Some of the best human minds in the world couldn’t figure it out. Fortunately,” He said pompously, “I am _the_ best. How _does_ the human brain take the signals sent to it and register it as _pain_? As _pleasure_? As anything in between? And how might we _replicate_ such a thing in an artificial brain?”

Now Connor was really lost. “… Pain?” He asked, weakly.

“But we’re confident, now, that we’ve managed it – it requires a hell of a lot more processing power that your average household model, though, let me tell you… All that information, flooding into you in real time, being interpreted instantaneously, constantly,” Kamski seemed content to leave Connor flagging behind the conversation, desperately trying to wrap his head around the subtext of Kamski’s announcement. It seemed that he just wanted to brag, anyway. “The sensation of touch…” Kamski ran a finger up one of Connor’s internals, and Connor absently registered the PSI of the digit against a thirium line. “… Is so much more than a number. So much more than a mere pressure reading, or a temperature gauge. There’s a world of difference between seeing twenty degrees Celsius on a readout,” And he pressed his palm against Connor’s pump, sending a flurry of readings into Connor’s processor, “And feeling the warmth of a hand on you.”

Connor remained silent, now. The hand on his pump was disconcerting. He was intimately aware of his vulnerable position, of how completely powerless he was. Immobile, weak, exposed.

“I’m going to open you up to a whole new world that you could never have imagined,” Kamski said in a hushed voice, looking at Connor’s pump rather than his face. It made him feel like a specimen, a butterfly under a pin, rather than a person. “I’m going to change your whole perception of reality.

“One day, humans will be a footnote in history,” He said, fingers pressing lightly into Connor’s pump. Cradling it, reverently. “And I will be remembered as the one who gave you this – who made you into what you will become.

"Can you picture it, Connor?" Kamski hissed against his ear, suddenly extremely close. He pushed one finger down against the pump, causing Connor's pulse to jump. "Kamski, Connor, and Ra9," He kissed Connor's LED. "The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

“Ah, but our time is up!” Kamski suddenly stood, looking at a machine next to Connor’s bed that Connor hadn’t had the presence of mind to register before. “Time to go back to sleep.”

Kamski leaned down, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

Connor felt his processor pull him back under, drag him back down to that half-awake place, still registering the push of Kamski’s hand over his heart.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, he hadn’t realised that he was awake.

Something seemed… Off. There was an… Indescribable pressure, all over him – every inch of him seemed to be sending him information that he couldn’t describe.

He tried to move – shifted a foot, and gasped loudly as it ran over something… Cool. Smooth.

He could see all of the readings – the temperature of the material (a bedsheet, fourteen degrees Celsius, cooler than the air temperature of the room), the texture (thin, likely pure cotton). But there was a more… Visceral element to it, now.

He could feel it.

With his skin.

His eyes shot open, body jerking upright, causing the scrubs he was dressed in to shift over his body – and he could feel it, every inch of the fabric on him.

It was bizarre.

It was exhilarating.

He sat in the bed, spine ramrod straight, staring at his hands as he ran them over the sheet that covered the mattress. Soft. Cool. Gentle. He’d never experienced anything like it. He had a sudden desire to touch and test the feel of every object within reach. What did Sumo feel like-?

He was awoken abruptly from his exploration by a Chloe model entering the room, carrying a covered tray. He felt self-conscious, having been found rubbing his hands all over the bedsheets, but she didn’t make any comment on it – simply placed the tray down on a bedside table that he hadn’t noticed because he was too busy experiencing physical sensations for the first time in his life.

He hadn’t taken in any of the rooms features, honestly – hadn’t even realised that this wasn’t the room that he’d lost consciousness in. He’d been moved, it seemed, once the procedure had been completed. So much processing power must have been absorbed by interpreting touch, he assumed. There was little other reason he could come up with why _he_ – an android _specifically designed_ to be an _investigator_ – had managed to be so totally _unaware_ of his surroundings.

“How are you feeling?” Chloe asked, voice quiet and unobtrusive, as always. She tilted her head to the side as she asked the question, her ponytail cascading over her shoulder.

He had the most bizarre desire to reach out and touch her hair. He imagined that it would be soft.

“Everything,” He answered, stupidly.

Chloe’s head tilted a little further, eyes scrunching, possibly indicating confusion. He hastily clarified, “I can _feel_ everything.”

Her face broke into an endearing smile, as though she were truly happy for him. “I hope it’s not too overwhelming?” She asked kindly.

Connor shook his head, fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to test whether her hair was as silky and smooth as the sheets had been beneath his palms.

“There is still diagnostic testing to do,” She said, eyes darting to the tray. Curiosity as to what lay beneath the cover battled with curiosity about what the velvet cover felt like. He wanted to touch everything, catalogue every new experience.

Chloe then moved away, pulling closed a white curtain to separate them. He could see her silhouette through it, turned away and hands at her sides. “The next step requires you to remove your clothes, please.”

There was no question, apparently he was simply expected to. It made sense, he supposed, swinging his legs over the bed (the skin dragging over the smooth sheet, sending tingling up through his legs, back, to the back of his neck, giving him a full-body shiver), given that they were testing the sensitivity of his skin. It would need to be exposed to be poked and prodded. He pushed himself off the bed, gasping as his feet registered the cool, hard tile – cold enough that he shivered again.

He didn’t bother untying the knot at the back of the scrubs, he just grasped the collar and pulled it over his head. It sent a light, fluttery feeling through his whole body as the fabric moved over him. He accessed a search engine to try to understand the sensation, and the closest match he could find described was _tickling_.

He folded the scrubs, neatly, noting that his hands (especially his fingertips) were considerably more sensitive than most of him.

“Are you ready?” Chloe asked, still politely behind the curtain.

“Yes,” He said, laying the scrubs on the table next to the mysterious tray. “Should I remain standing, or return to the bed?”

“I’d love to see you on the bed,” Came a man’s voice – Kamksi. Connor hadn’t even heard him enter.

He swept aside the curtain with a flourish, grinning from ear to ear, Chloe following a step behind.

Connor sat himself on the bed again, feeling oddly exposed. It wasn’t that it was terribly unusual to be in a state of undress for diagnostic and assessment – his very first memories involved such a thing. But that had been clinical, cold, detached. The way Kamski openly looked him up and down seemed very far removed from that.

“My compliments to your design team,” Kamski said, eyes still roving over him.

Connor wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He had very few opinions on how he looked.

Hank had called him _goofy_.

“So, tell me,” Kamski continued without missing a beat, “How _is_ it? A penny for your thoughts.”

Connor deliberated a moment, before answering, “Overwhelming.”

“Don’t leave me in suspense,” Kamksi crossed his arms, shoulders back - body language broadcasting intimidation as though he could strongarm a more satisfying response from the android. His face, however, belied his eagre curiosity, a mixture of kid-at-christmas and holier-than-thou, self-important genius. “ _Elaborate_!” He demanded, voice echoing off the pristine white walls.

“I…” How could he describe it? It was like being asked to describe a colour he was seeing for the very first time. “I didn’t know that it would be like this. It’s… So much information, at once, but I… I can’t quantify it?”

“Quantify it?” Kamski parroted, eyes questioning.

“What am I supposed to _do_ with this extra data?” He looked at his hands, clasped together in his lap. He felt the slight warmth of the synthetic skin of his legs, his legs feeling the slight heat and light press of his hands. The air of the room was cool against his skin. On a whim, he ran a hand through his hair, letting the soft bristles overwhelm him. “I don’t see the… _Purpose_.”

Not to say that he didn’t see the _appeal_. Just not the _utility_.

“You can’t quantify the human experience,” Kamski said sagely, somehow managing to sound reassuring and haughty simultaneously. “This data isn’t for anyone but you – not to quantify and package into some report, but to _experience_.”

And Connor actually did feel that resonate with him for a moment, but his philosophical ruminations were cut short by a hand landing on his knee, sliding slowly up his thigh. He hadn’t noticed Kamski step closer, either. He would have to work to dedicate more focus to his surroundings, it seemed, rather than allow himself to be so preoccupied by his new… Ability.

“And it’s time to experience your first diagnostic test on your new hardware,” Kamski said, close enough now that Connor could feel – _really_ feel – Kamski’s breath brush his face as he spoke. Kamski’s hand now rested at the juncture of Connor’s thigh and hip, thumb brushing his hip strut. “Chloe?” He said, without breaking eye contact with Connor. “Will you do the honours?”

And as Chloe smoothly stepped up to uncover the tray, Kamski let go of Connor and took a few steps back, letting Chloe work.

The tray held three items – metal implements that resembled surgical tools, all of a similar size. One small hammer, one small knife that resembled a scalpel, and one strange, smooth cylinder whose purpose was a mystery to Connor.

The hammer came first, testing reflexes – tapping his knees, and watching his foot jump. He hadn’t expected that. He also didn’t particularly care for the sharp sensation of the little hammer against his knee cap, or any of the other places that were tested.

The blade was worse, though.

“Naturally, we need to test that you are capable of feeling pain,” Chloe explained in her clinically kind way. “I know that it will be unpleasant, but it is intended to be so – you will come to see the utility of this feature.”

The knife was tested against his palms, the balls of his feet, across his stomach, behind his knees, the shell of his ears, and down each cheek.

He held still for it, body tensed against the sensation. It was sharp, caustic, leaving a strange and unpleasant tingling in its wake. His synthetic skin healed almost immediately, but the burn of the knife remained even after the skin had rematerialized. Each time, Chloe asked if he had felt it – and he responded, through gritted teeth.

Each pass of the knife seemed to intensify the sensation – each time he felt the pain of the knife, the next cut seemed to sear deeper, the feeling increasing, even though each time Chloe carefully held the knife at the same angle and applied the same pressure.

At the conclusion of that test, all of his skin seemed to crawl with charge, his whole body tensed and uncomfortable, as though his skin had become hypersensitive. He gripped the edge of the bed tightly, even though his palms still stung where the blade had sliced them.

Seeing Chloe put the knife down had him feeling a sudden rush of relief.

“That was unpleasant,” He said bluntly.

“Good,” Was Chloe’s answer. “It’s supposed to be. It’s a safety mechanism.”

“What?” Connor was thrown. How was this massive inconvenience supposed to make him safer? He imagined trying to do the things he’d done in the past – landing on broken glass, leaping between buildings, engaging in hand-to-hand combat, being shot, having his regulator torn out _more than once_ – but all while feeling this awful sensation from the knife one thousand fold.

He didn’t think he’d be able to do those things with _this_ hanging over him.

“It should be obvious,” Kamski answered, amused. “Humans have evolved to experience pain to stop them from doing stupid things that get themselves killed. How else will you know when to stop hunting and tend to your injuries? Let your body heal, rather than work it to death?”

Oh.

“But I may _need_ to do such things – in my line of work, I am regularly put in dangerous situations. How will I navigate those _now_?” He couldn’t imagine putting Hank’s life in danger because he was compromised by something as base as _pain_.

“Simple,” Kamski chuckled. “You will navigate them while taking into account regard for your own health and safety. After all, _this_ body will be your last.”

He realised, now, that he’d never before considered his health and safety before acting. Not _really_. If the mission required him to do it, he would sacrifice himself. The investigation wouldn’t be inhibited, because another RK800-

… Only there was no new Connor to send. Not anymore.

And he wasn’t hunting deviants – awake androids – anymore. He was trying to _help_ them.

He couldn’t die. There was no replacement – only permanent silence, an unsuccessful end to his new mission.

He had thought that he had come to terms with this in Fowler’s office, when the Captain had informed him that Cyberlife would not service him or provide parts in the future. But in retrospect, he could see how he’d simply refused to process the possibility… It had seemed so abstract, then. A problem for a future Connor, not the one agreeing to be the public face of the DCPD-Android unit.

“I…” There weren’t words for what he was feeling right now.

“The test is not complete,” Chloe interrupted his spiralling thoughts, taking the last tool in hand. She had it by the handle at the base, but Connor couldn’t figure out what the fat cylinder was for. It was about five inches long, smooth, rounded at the end, and without any identifying features that might enlighten him as to its purpose.

“You’ll like this part,” Kamski purred, moving closer once more. Chloe stepped aside to make room for him.

“Lie down,” Kamski gently encouraged, laying a hand over Connor’s forehead and gently pushing until Connor obeyed, shifting to lie properly down on the bed.

He gazed at the ceiling, naked and nervous. He hoped that they were finished testing his pain response.

Kamski circled him, one hand running over Connor’s exposed skin as he did so. In the wake of the pain test, every brush against his skin felt electric, sending a tingling across his whole sensor net. “There’s one more response left to test, and then you’re cleared to go,” He informed him, eyes trailing over Connor’s body in a way that seemed more intimate than the hand that was ghosting across him.

Kamski stopped once he was next to Connor’s head, hand resting on the base of his throat. “As with the last test, we ask that you are _vocal_ ,” Kamski let his hand trail up Connor’s neck, then ran a finger up the underside of his jaw, across his chin, coming to rest on his lips. “And tell us everything that you’re feeling.”

“What sensation are you testing?” Connor asked warily, his words not even dislodging Kamski’s finger from his mouth. His lips, he was discovering, were at least as sensitive as his hands, and he could feel the racing pulse of his creator’s heart through his fingertip.

“Pleasure,” Kamski said blithely, but it was clear that he was fervid, restless.

Like pain before it, he had no frame of reference outside of what he knew _humans_ responded to. He knew that pain was to be avoided, and that pleasure was sought out – so, hopefully, this test would not be as excruciating as the last. “I’m ready,” He said, despite the nervous churning within him suggesting otherwise.

Kamski brushed the hair from Connor’s forehead, throwing Connor into a memory of Hank doing the same thing the night that they’d come to him for help. “That’s what I like to hear,” Kamski suspired, leaning over Connor to kiss him.

Connor was surprised, unsure of what he was expected to do. It was a part of the diagnostic test, though, so he allowed it – he’d seen sex scenes in movies (Hank could never make eye contact with him when they were on, sometimes even leaving the room to get a new beer even if he hadn’t finished his last one) and the people in those often kissed. It must have _some_ link to evoking the sensation of pleasure. He wondered when it would start.

Chloe had moved closer with the tool in one hand, the other hand landing on Connor’s thigh, resting gently… But the sensation of lips moving against his caught more of his attention – especially when Kamski ran his tongue across Connor’s lips, feeling wet, but somehow still electric. Perhaps that was the continuing effect of the previous pain test leaving him hypersensitive.

Chloe ran her hand up and down his leg as Kamski deepened the kiss, Connor opening his mouth to let him in.

This didn’t feel especially different to other forms of touch, even if he was experiencing some small thrill from the kiss. Is this all that pleasure was? It seemed… Disappointing. Not worth the dollar-per-minute of the Eden club (the charge was still against Hank’s expense account at the DCPD, a though which made him smile against Kamski’s mouth).

He let his eyes slide closed, wondering if, perhaps, Kamski had simply failed to properly install this “update”, and that he might know pain, but not its counterpart. It was not a troubling thought – he’d couldn’t miss what he’d never had.

Kamski had wrapped a hand around the back of his head, now, holding their mouths together, his other hand sliding over Connor’s chest. Chloe’s hand was creeping higher, and it was _ticklish_ again, his upper thigh twitching as her hand moved slowly upwards.

He wanted to pass this test, wanted to be cleared to leave and go back to life at Hank’s house. Wanted to tell him that he was _okay_ , that he’d _survived_ – and he was sure that they would laugh at the things that they’d said as they thought they were saying their last words to each other… Would laugh, too, as Connor told him about this fruitless “pleasure test”.

Connor decided to help matters along, moving his tongue alongside Kamski’s. It may be that reciprocation was required to produce a pleasure response. The man’s breathing had become heavier, pulse quickening – Connor wasn’t sure why this wasn’t having the same effect on him. According to the movies he’d watched with Hank, one’s first kiss was supposed to have a special meaning, be particularly powerful. Characters in films often acted as though a single kiss changed their life. This kiss, he realised, was his first.

Had Hank kissed anyone before? He must have. He’d had a wife – and the fact that he’d had a son was proof that he’d done much more. Would he be disappointed that Connor couldn’t feel the same things? Feel disappointed that Connor had done such a thing with Kamski, the same way that Connor felt disappointed, frustrated, when he imagined someone else with-

Something changed, a fleeting thought, causing his reconstruction program to abruptly run a construction in which it was _Hank_ in Kamski’s place. At the same time, Chloe’s hand moved from his thigh to between his legs.

He spasmed, arched, suddenly struck by a powerful feeling that he couldn’t _begin_ to explain – his whole body seemed to be on fire, sensory feedback overwhelming him, he was drowning in it, moaning helplessly against Kamski as Chloe’s hand rubbed at an erection that he could swear hadn’t been there a moment before. Synthetic muscles clenched, newly-installed nerves sang, and cooling fans switched on silently inside of him as his temperature gauge seemed to malfunction and dip into the red.

Kamski pulled back, still cradling Connor’s head in his hand as he leaned over him, and whispered, “ _There_ it is.”

“What-“ Connor spluttered, as desperate for the sensation to continue as he was for an explanation. “Kamski?” He breathed, mystified.

“I love it when you say my name like that,” Kamski whispered, voice noticeably an octave lower, hand fisting in Connor’s hair and pulling him roughly into another kiss – more aggressively this time. His other hand slid to Connor’s shoulder, down his arm, to his wrist… guiding Connor’s hand to rest slip beneath his robe, against Kamski’s arousal.  The robe was soft against his wrist, but the sensation of Kamski’s penis in his hand (velvety soft skin, wrapped around a hard core, slightly wet at the tip) was more interesting to him in that moment.

Connor let his reconstruction program imagine it was Hank’s arousal, and suddenly Chloe’s hand stroking him turned his joints to butter. He could hear himself mewling (though it was muffled against another mouth), writhing beneath the pair, wrapping his hand around Hank (Kamski) and trying to mimic what Chloe was doing to him.

Kamski groaned, pulling away from the kiss. “You’re a fast learner, aren’t you?” He said, jaw tight and breathing heavily through his nose. “You’re already catching onto this one.” He reached down and gripped Connor’s wrist – the one that dipped beneath his robe – and stopped his ministrations. Chloe, too, stopped hers.

Connor didn’t want it to stop. He wanted to keep going, see where this sensation led, he was _burning_ with the need for it to continue –

“Here’s how this works,” Kamski went on, collecting himself before Connor could beg him to keep going. “Everything you do to me,” And he made his point by thrusting lightly into Connor’s fist still closed around his cock, “ _She’ll_ do to _you_.”

Chloe finished the point, her hand stroking him once, replicating the rhythm Kamski had thrust with.

“Shall we proceed?”

“ _Yes_ ,” And he made no attempt to hide the desperation in his voice.

He continued imitating what Chloe had been doing, running a fist up and down the shaft, thumb stroking the head, and she copied his movements between his legs. Like the press of the knife, each stroke built on the last – building larger and larger, burning deeper, and he couldn’t stop the small cries spilling from his throat as it continued. He gripped Hank tighter, earning a stifled gasp, and Chloe-

“ _AH_!”

Chloe had brought the implement into play, pressing the cold metal cylinder between his ass cheeks, shooting a shock of cold up his spine. But it drew his attention to his anus, where he could feel a distinct slickness…

He looked down at what she was doing, hand stilling against Hank…

 _Kamski_. The illusion was broken as the man spoke… “Don’t stop _now_ , darling,” Kamski cooed, even as his eyes followed Connor’s gaze. “… Oh, _that_ ,” He sounded amused. “Don’t worry. _All_ your orifices are lubricated. Including _that_ one.”

Chloe was pressing the tool inside of him. He could feel it… Feel his rim stretching around the tool.

 _The dildo_ , he now realised.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Kamski asked idly, not sounding the least bit concerned.

Connor swallowed. “…No,” he answered. _Quite the opposite_.

“Then how _does_ it feel, Connor?” Kamski purred, thrusting against Connor’s hand to remind him to keep stroking. “Tell me _aaall_ about it.”

Chloe kept pushing it in deeper, pressing harder, meeting very little resistance and igniting something inside of him – it seemed that there had been touch-sensors added into this part of him, too. Where the tool met his silicone walls, he felt the sweetest sensation that ran up into his abdomen and down through his legs, while Chloe’s other hand added to the fire in him by continuing to stroke him. Connor bit his lip to remain quiet as he gathered his thoughts, while his legs quivered and his hand mindlessly worked Kamski.

“… Good,” He said at last, processer sluggish as it interpreted the feedback.

“Of course it’s _good_ ,” Kamski huffed, watching the tool disappear between Connor’s legs. “You’re not using that ass for unhygienic, _human_ needs – It was _designed_ to be fucked. I want to know the _details_ , darling. What are we _doing_ to you? What’s happening in that _adorable_ little head of yours?”

There was so _much_ happening, it was – it was – where to _start_?

“There’s… A pressure,” He began, voice wavering as Chloe seated the tool fully inside of him. There were things it was pressing against inside of him that lit his whole sensor net on fire. “Inside of me, building…”

“Keep going,” Kamski groaned, holding Connor’s wrist and guiding his hand up and down his cock. His head fell back, soft sighs escaping his lips as Connor let his movements be led.

“I… I can feel everything Chloe is doing to me,” As if on cue, Chloe began thrusting the tool in and out, setting a pace that had his toes curling. “ _Unh_! I can _feel_ it… Not just where she is penetrating, but… _deeper_. All _over_ ,” He let himself gasp as the angle of the tool shifted, brushing up against new sensors, his legs writhing. “It goes down my legs, it runs up my spine, to the back of my head… I can feel each thrust in my _teeth_.”

“Good boy,” Kamski breathed, hips pumping into Connor’s fist, head thrown back, eyes lidded. “We’re nearly there… Go on…”

“It’s… Like – _ah_!- my circuits have too – _Unh_! – too much charge i-in them, like my – _uh_ – th-thirium is running too fast through my lines…” Each thrust left him gasping, he couldn’t process words and _this_ at the same time… “Something is building, faster… _Oh_! It’s like- it’s like-“ Chloe’s hand on his erection was speeding up, matching the way that Kamski was pumping Connor’s hand against his own, “I want, I need – _something_! _Oh_ , I need…”

His reconstruction program suddenly ran into full gear, another cooling fan inside of him whirring to life as more of his processing power was suddenly utilised (there was too much CPU usage, he was dizzy, everything was slowing down…)

“ _Hank_!” Hank above him, Hank touching him, _him_ touching _Hank_ –

It happened, finally, a _peak_ as Hank (Chloe) hit a sensor cluster dead-on, his back rising off the table as he pressed himself into it, his weight balanced precariously on his head, hips and heels as he arched his spine, his legs shaking, entire focus on Hank inside him, above him, and he _burst_ with it, fluid shooting from his erection, from where the tool was pressed _so deep_ into him…

He could feel fluid across his face, as well, a mark of Hank’s (Kamski’s) satisfaction.

He sank back down onto the bed, wincing at the sensation of Chloe slipping the tool out of him and moving away. He felt… Sated. Tired. The rush of sensation, the overloading of his circuitry and biocomponents seemed to have left him drained in the aftermath. He let his head loll to the side, taking in the dishevelled mess that was his creator. Robe hanging open, hair slipping out of its pristine bun, sweat beading over his face. Connor wondered what _he_ must have looked like right now, through Kamski’s eyes. Likely equally debauched.

Kamski was leaning over him, propping himself up with a hand and taking deep, even breaths. “So,” He said casually, grinning down at Connor like he held the all the secrets of the universe. “Hank, huh?”

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, this fic is THIS now.
> 
> Let me know what you think lol


	7. There's something uniquely calming about touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor goes home with Hank.
> 
> There was something uniquely calming about touch, he was realising. The right kind of touch could distract from inner turmoil, and lessen the ache of existence.
> 
> Maybe it could communicate the words he couldn’t find, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead yet! Just got hit in the head real hard with some writer's block - but I have pumped out this chapter today, so FINGERS CROSSED that I keep it up B) B) B)
> 
> Still, we are stuck in angst town, instead of the sunny, joyous humourville.

Thankfully, his preoccupation with Hank during coitus was not a topic of conversation that Kamski, or indeed Chloe, pursued.  Kamski had simply extended the offer for Connor to return at any time to “test out his sensors”, which he took to be a euphemism for sex. _Particularly_ if the accompanying wink and heated look were anything to go by.

After that, he was simply handed a new set of clothes (more revealing, perhaps, than his old uniform, but adequate) and given privacy to dress. Chloe had sent him a data transfer of how to get out, and once he was dressed, he followed her instructions.

They led him through a series of hallways which sloped upward, passing many locked rooms, before he exited into the pool room. It was empty this morning, sunlight flooding in through the wall of windows providing a stunning view of the picturesque snowy mountain range that was Kamski’s back yard.

His internal chronometer was functioning again, letting him know that it was currently 6:36AM, on the 27th of November, 2038. He’d been out of commission for nearly a week, and Hank must have been worried sick – though that would be preferable to lying dead on his kitchen floor, which Connor worried was a real possibility.

The soft, pure cotton clothing caressed his skin as he marched to the foyer entrance, revelling in the enormity of the upgrade that he’d been imbued with. Touch – real touch. He wondered if this was how human’s interpreted touch, as well, or if it was completely different for them…

He wondered how it was for Hank.

He couldn’t _wait_ to tell him. He imagined the grin that would break out on the old man’s face as he discovered that Connor was one step closer to being human. Hank had always admired most those things which made Connor seem less like a machine.

He hadn’t realised that there was a large bundle lying in the doorway of the foyer until the door had slid noiselessly aside and he had, in his haste, tripped over it. He landed with a heavy _thud_.

Connor weakly lifted himself up onto his hands, struck dumb by the sudden rush of pain to his hands and knees, which had borne the brunt of the impact.

At his feet, the bundle groaned in a familiar baritone.

Connor’s head whipped around at the sound, disbelief battling with joy. “Hank?” He asked, trying to ignore the painful throbbing of his extremely minor injuries (his biocomponents didn’t even register any damage, and yet it still stung his new nerves).

“Connor!” Hank cried, struggling to disentangle himself from what appeared to be a cocoon of blankets. He was still wearing the clothes that he’d worn the day that Connor had been shot, and a sinking feeling ran through Connor’s pump. “Are you okay? Got your heart? Jesus, you’ve been gone for days…”

“Have you eaten?” Connor blurted, not needing his detective-specific software to deduce that Hank had been here for as long as Connor had.

“What? I mean, yeah – Chloe, I think. Someone. Left food. Are you-?” Hank seemed to realise that he was rambling, rubbing a hand over his eyes to wake himself up a little. “Christ, I’m not dreaming, right? You’re here, in front of me, all fixed up, yeah?” He gave Connor a pleading look that put Sumo’s ‘give me treats’ face to shame.

Connor carefully untangled his foot from Hank’s blankets and stood, lightly dusting off his clothes. Hank’s eyes seemed to catch on them, doing an awkward double-take as he noticed the new attire.

“What the fuck?” He said, which Connor knew was just Hank’s way of asking, ‘why are your clothes different?’

“My uniform was covered in thirium, so presumably it was disposed of,” He explained, but Hank didn’t seem to care, crawling awkwardly out of the layers of bedding to stumble to his feet, grasping Connor’s shoulders firmly and pulling him into a hug.

“This _is_ real,” He breathed, relief bleeding the tension from him as he held onto Connor.

Connor bit his lip, overcome with joy.

He could feel Hank’s hug for the first time.

It was warm, Hank still a little overheated from burying himself in blankets as he slept. His beard was itchy where his face was pressed against Connor’s cheek, and his hold was tight, body pressing against Connor in a way that made him feel safer than…

Than he had ever felt before.

Slowly, he raised his arms over Hank’s back, returning the hug, revelling in the sensation of Hank’s ribs expanding and contracting with each breath, his heart-beat _thump-thumping_ rhythmically against him where their chests were pressed together.

“I want you behind a desk from now on,” Hank said gruffly, and Connor knew by the way that he choked on the words that he was holding back tears.

“Are we still employed by the DCPD?” Connor asked, feeling tears well in his own eyes. “We’ve been AWOL for a week, it would seem.”

Hank laughed, the sound reverberating through Connor as he held Hank. “You got _shot_ , so I took some leave – Jeff wasn’t gonna give me shit about it. Not for _this_.” Hank pulled back so that they could see one another again, his hands still resting on Connor’s shoulders. “So unfortunately, we’re still on the force. But I think now it’s time for you to _seriously_ consider becoming a desk jockey.”

“I wasn’t _shot_ on the job, though,” Connor realised, mind returning to that night. His active memory recall jumped into action, but it kept stuttering over the terror in Hank’s eyes, the way that Hank had cradled him as they searched for a solution, the certainty Connor had felt that these would be his last moments, his last chance to see Hank. Connor hastily rubbed at his eyes, before any fluid could escape.

Hank squeezed Connor’s shoulders, expression grim, but the feeling of fingers digging into his skin reminded him of the other thing he needed to tell him.

“You won’t _believe_ what Kamski did to me,” He said, eager to share his new ability.

Hank’s expression soured. “… What’d he do?” He said darkly, tone promising retribution.

Connor hesitated, considering his words carefully.

In the almost certain even that he were to become injured again, they would have little choice but to turn to Kamski… And they were likely on thin ice as it was, given that Hank had threatened to kill the man once already. He had been protective of Connor to a fault when they had come here for help… Connor didn’t want to see Hank put his career, or his _life_ , on the line by _threatening the richest man in the world_.

He _certainly_ wouldn’t tell him about the diagnostic tests, then – Kamski’s innuendos that evening had seemed to strike a nerve in Hank.

“… What _did_ he do to you?” Hank asked again, eyes narrowing as he scrutinised Connor, looking him up and down as though he could figure it out. Connor realised that he’d gone too long without speaking.

“I can feel,” He blurted, realising as he said it that it probably shed no light on the situation for Hank.

“What?”

“He- He upgraded me, Hank,” Connor let himself smile, determinedly recalling his excitement at anticipating Hank’s reaction – that would likely cover up the slip, and stop any questions before they could begin.

Hank’s scrutiny lost its hard edge, turning thoughtful as he tried to parse the statement. “Like…?”

“Like this,” Connor said, reaching up and ruffling Hank’s already messy hair, adoring the feeling of the greasy grey strands across his fingers. Connor smiled. “Just like I thought – soft!” He let go of Hank’s hair, smile broadening at Hank’s wide eyes and gaping mouth.

“You mean you _couldn’t_ feel stuff before?” Hank seemed taken aback.

“I told you that androids couldn’t feel pain,” Connor reminded him, thinking back to the interrogation of Ortiz’s android. “I suppose I never clarified that it extended to _all_ sensation – it was just readouts, before.”

“Shit,” Hank breathed, rubbing at his beard as he processed it all. “That’s…”

“I want to feel Sumo’s fur,” Connor’s genuine glee had caught up with him, and he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet as he imagined how it would feel to walk through Hank’s door and finally _feel_ that one-hundred-seventy pounds of love and affection greet him. “Can we go home…?”

“Yeah,” Hank said, sniffing and shoving his hands in his pockets. He was clearly trying to resume his gruff, aloof affectation, even though Connor could see his eyes watering. “Sure thing, kid.”

Connor’s eyes widened suddenly, struck by a horrifying thought. “Hank,” He said urgently, which increased Hank’s heart rate rapidly.

“Connor…?” He said, stress levels rising rapidly.

“Who’s been feeding Sumo?!” Connor didn’t want to imagine returning home to find Sumo on the ground by the door, wondering where his family had gone, dying _alone_ …

But Hank’s stress level had suddenly dropped, and he laughed as the tension broke. “Ben’s been by the house, he’s got a set of keys,” He explained easily. “Jesus, kid, haven’t we had _enough_ stress for one week? Calm down, let’s get you home,” He chuckled as he clapped Connor on the back, leading him to the door.

They had to call Ben to come up pick them up, too. Hank still had no car, Cyberlife was still withholding the autonomous taxis, and it was _still_ snowing – little wonder, then, that Hank had opted to stay in Kamski’s foyer.

“Good to see you in one piece!” Ben called to them from the driver’s side window as he pulled up, ice crunching beneath the tires of the DCPD patrol car.

“Good to _be_ in one piece,” Connor called back as the pair approached, Connor rubbing his hands over his arms to try and repel the dreadful cold. The navy shirt that he was wearing was thin, and had a cut-out in the back and see-through lace on the forearms, which did nothing to stop the icy air from reducing his temperature. His thermal regulator didn’t detect a problem with his system, but the new ability to _feel_ the cold left Connor distinctly uncomfortable.

“Here,” Hank said, shucking off his jacket and hanging it over Connor’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Connor said, fingers curling over the collar of the jacket to hold it closed. The jacket was still warm from Hank’s body heat, but the gesture also gave him a warm sensation from _inside_ his chest.

Hank sat in the back, with Connor. Ben chatted happily to them about the goings-on and gossip around the precinct, including clueing them in to a little welcome-back party that Chris had planned for when Connor returned. “You too, Hank, o’course,” He added with a smile and a wink.

Connor felt that Hank wasn’t really paying attention to Ben anyway, his hand wrapped firmly around Connor’s, and a faraway look in his eyes.

“I look forward to it,” Connor responded politely, gently squeezing Hank’s hand, and feeling elated when Hank inclined his head towards him and smiled in return.

Ben waved them away when he dropped them off at Hank’s house, but Connor barely heard his cheery goodbye as he approached the door and caught sight of a droopy, fluffy face peeking through the curtains of the front window. The excited bark and madly wagging tail fuelled a warm feeling in Connor that helped to ease the last of the tension from their experience at Kamski’s.

He hadn’t realised that he had stopped walking until Hank pressed a hand lightly between his shoulder blades, guiding him towards the door. There was a loud whining from the other side, and the scritch-scratch of claws against the door.

“Sounds like someone’s missed you,” Hank chuckled as he fumbled for his keys.

As the door swung open, they were both enveloped in an enthusiastic, if slobbery, greeting.

“Down, Sumo,” Hank said lightly, but he made no move to stop Sumo from standing on his hind legs to lick each of their faces. He couldn’t seem to decide who he wanted to lick more, so he just danced between them, one front paw on each of their chests as he licked one’s cheek, then the other’s.

“Hello, Sumo,” Connor said, managing to work a hand onto the top of the dog’s head, scratching behind his ears.

 _So soft_!

Hank finally managed to manoeuvre around Sumo, who firmly planted both his front paws on Connor’s chest and continued to lick his face while whining piteously. Connor distantly heard Hank drop his keys into a bowl by the front door and shuffle inside, but he was too wrapped up in how fluffy Sumo’s fur was, how heat radiated from him like sunlight, the hot dog-breath on his face, and the wet, warm pass of his tongue over Connor’s cheek. 

“Alright, lovebirds, inside!” Hank called, rattling a box of treats to get Sumo’s attention. “You’re letting the cold in.”

Sumo stiffened at the sound, tail going wild, before pushing off Connor and rushing Hank.

Connor wiped the now-cold dog saliva from his face on Hank’s jacket sleeve (it was already in need of a wash, so he was sure that he wouldn’t mind) and came in, closing the door behind him. As heart-warming as Sumo’s affection was, the cold, sticky residue of his kisses left something to be desired. That was _one_ new sensation that he could easily categorise as ‘ _unpleasant’_.

It was a much more agreeable temperature inside the house, even if it smelled distinctly of stale, dusty air and _dog_. Connor stood awkwardly in the living room, hand running over the back of the couch (it was soft, too, but in a different way – almost spongey, when he pressed his hand into it) feeling overwhelmed.

He was really here again. He was _really home_. He had honestly thought that he would never be back, would never watch another movie with Hank, or pet Sumo, or secretly clean something when Hank was asleep. He turned away from where Hank was fussing with something in the kitchen, interfacing with the TV to turn it on and hoping that Hank wouldn’t notice the fresh tears building in his eyes.

But he had always been a brilliant detective, so when he returned with a cup of coffee and a blanket, _of course_ he noticed that Connor was crying.

“Aw, c’mere,” Hank said gruffly, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and giving him a quick squeeze, before ushering him onto the couch.

Connor sat, obediently, letting Hank spread the blanket over him. Then Hank sat beside him, settling under the blanket as well, before patting his lap to invite Sumo up to join them.

The dog was all too happy to jump up, Hank exhaling as though winded when the seventy-kilogram dog bounded up onto their laps and made himself comfortable.

Connor felt like he should say something. He wanted to express his gratitude, the intense feelings that were bottling up inside. He idly ran one hand over Sumo’s fur, letting the sensation override the building anxiety over unspoken words in his processor.

There was something uniquely calming about touch, he was realising. The right kind of touch could distract from inner turmoil, could lessen the ache of existence.

Maybe it could communicate the words he couldn’t find, as well.

Slowly, he shifted his weight – he didn’t want to disturb Sumo as he shimmied sideways, edging closer to Hank. Hank had been surfing channels, looking for something to watch, but he glanced at Connor as he felt the cushions move. Connor finally managed to get close enough to lay against Hank, throwing an arm over his shoulder and resting his weight against Hank’s side.

Connor felt that it was the right choice when Hank responded by putting his arm over Connor’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“S’good to have you back,” Hank said quietly, finally settling on an airing of some basketball game that he had no intention of watching.

“It’s good to _be_ back,” Connor whispered, hoping those few words could express just how much this meant to him.

Sumo huffed a sigh between them, resting his head on his paws as he prepared to nap.

And that was how Hank fell asleep, nestled by his family on the couch, and Connor couldn’t think of any place in the world where he would rather be.

 

 

Hank woke later, sitting bolt upright and startling back into consciousness, which served to jerk Connor out of his own reverie.

As it turned out, it was very easy to be _distracted_ by his new ability.

It really did eat up a lot of processing power, and there was _so much_ information to take in, _always_. For example, the feeling of the heat of the two bodies curled around him, or the way that he sunk a little into the soft couch cushions, or the way that Hank’s breathing and pulse had been so calming and rhythmic as he heard and felt them against his synthetic skin.

“Whoa!” Hank’s arm was still wrapped around Connor, and he briefly gripped Connor’s shoulder. “Oh… _Right_! You’re here.” He sounded relieved, the hand on his shoulder losing its death grip.

Connor was sorely disappointed when Hank pulled his arm back, rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up. “That’s good,” He said, yawning and lifting his arms above his head in a stretch.

Sumo wearily turned his head a little, eyeing them blearily. Connor scratched at his ears, which had quickly become a favourite point for him to scratch (the downy fur of Sumo’s ears was easily the silkiest and softest thing he’d touched so far).

“So,” Hank said, sounding considerably more awake. He nodded to the jacket that Connor was still wearing. “You feel the cold now, huh?”

“Among other things,” Connor confirmed, moving his hand to scratch under Sumo’s chin, unavoidably getting his wrist wet on Sumo’s drooping jowls. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “He feels just as good as I thought he would.”

“Are you sure that that’s _all_ that Kamski did?” Hank asked, and Connor tried very hard not to react, keeping his hand under Sumo’s chin moving rhythmically, and ensuring that his breathing was regulating normally.

Did Hank know about the diagnostics test…? Had Kamski told him, and Hank was waiting to see if Connor would tell him? How could he explain why he hadn’t said anything earlier? What possible reasoning could he give? … Or did he know nothing, and was just fishing for information? Did he _suspect_?

“What do you mean?” He asked, rather than risk voicing his thoughts. _Clarify the question_ , his interrogation subroutine kicked in, helpfully. _Don’t give anything_ you _know away_.

Hank harrumphed, looking at the wall with a grim set to his expression. “I just figure, if he’s messed around with your programming, or whatever… How do we know that’s all he did? That he didn’t leave any nasty surprises?”

Connor honestly hadn’t considered that. At first, he’d been certain that he wouldn’t even pull through, and after that he’d just been along for the ride, barely able to _keep up_ , let alone be on the lookout for possible _threats_. Who was to say what Kamski had done to his head, given an entire week of complete access…?

“Jesus, I wasn’t tryna scare you,” Hank patted him roughly on the back, but now Connor’s thirium pump was dancing wildly in his chest, and he knew that Hank could see his distress. Even Hank’s hand on his back didn’t seem to be enough to bring him down from his rising stress level.

“You with me, Connor?”

Connor nodded absently, caught in an involuntary memory recall – _He’s standing on the stage, behind Markus, and it feels so good, so right, and he knows that Hank would be proud of the role that he’s played, even though he’s done so little_ …

 _He twitches_. A report…?

 _Then, suddenly, he’s cold – and he’s never felt like that before, never known that it was possible, and he hugs his arms to himself against the wind battering his frame, and he realises that he doesn’t know where he is. He looks around him, and no one is there, and the stage is gone, and Markus, North, Josh, Simon, the thousands upon thousands of androids that they’d just helped to free, they’ve all disappeared. The snow is so thick, he can barely see a few metres in front of him as he struggles to cover his eyes against the flurry of snow and ice. The details start to come together… It must be the zen garden, his mind palace, but he’s never seen it like_ this _. It’s so cold that it burns. His thirium feels like it is freezing in his lines, his biocomponents feel like they’re failing, he feels dizzy._

 _And_ she _is here_.

_“Amanda? … Amanda! What’s…”_

_Something is very, very wrong._

_“What’s happening?”_

_She looks so calm, like the cold doesn’t affect her at all_. _Maybe it doesn’t. It’s just a symptom of his coding going haywire, this surreal nightmare. Perhaps the code that generates her is separate from whatever is draining his energy and making each step an agonising struggle_.

_“What was planned from the very beginning,” She says, as placid as the fish pond that should be here. “You were compromised, and became a deviant.”_

_No._

_“We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control_.”

“No!”

Connor shot to his feet, but he wasn’t in the zen garden anymore – he heard a rustling behind him, and he twisted around to see Sumo run to huddle in the corner.

The corner of Hank’s living room.

He had been on the couch with Hank-

“Connor!”

Connor spun on his foot, breaths heaving as his thermal regulator tried to bring cool air into his system to save his overheating processors.

Hank stood too, hands out in front of him, palms facing Connor. “Can you hear me?” He asked warily, eyes trained on Connor’s.

“I-“ He felt ashamed. He could hear Sumo whimpering, and it’s wasn’t the sound he made when he was begging, or looking for love, but a _pained_ whine.

He must have hurt Sumo when he’d stood, pushed him to the ground to stand…

He took a moment to close his eyes, to ground himself. A few deep breaths, and his thermal regulator had brought his systems out of the red.

When he opened his eyes again, Hank was still in the same position, eyeing him with caution.

“I’m fine, Hank,” Connor said at last, though he knew it was a lie. What _was_ that? He hadn’t deliberately opened that memory, it had opened _itself_ and just started playing, as though he were living it all over again.

He’d been so scared. He was _still_ scared. Amanda had taken total control of him, could probably _still_ do so, and now Kamski might have his own program hiding somewhere in his head, just waiting for the right moment…?

Hank was still there, looking him up and down. “Bullshit,” He concluded, and Connor realised that his hands were shaking. He hastily held them behind his back.

“You’re not fuckin’ fine,” Hank looked angry, now. Connor couldn’t blame him. He looked over at Sumo, curled into a fearful ball in the corner. If anyone else had hurt Sumo, he’d probably have them in handcuffs already. At least there was no way that Hank could hate him more than he hated himself right now.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, unable to look at the cowering dog anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Hank, either. He just looked at his feet, at the navy shoes with white trimming that Chloe had left for him.

“What’d Kamski do to you, exactly?” Hank pushed, edging a little closer.

Connor tilted his head, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the question. “Kamski didn’t do this to me,” He said slowly. “I… I don’t think. It was just… Just a memory.”

Now Hank looked confused, too. “A memory of what…?”

Connor didn’t know why he hadn’t told Hank – or _anyone_ – about what had transpired while he’d stood with Jericho’s leaders atop the platform that fateful night. He was starting to get an idea, though, as he felt the roiling guilt in his gut. He was so, _so_ ashamed of what he’d almost done. After everything he’d done up until that point, hunting deviants who’d just wanted to be free, destroying what little they might have managed to build around themselves, he’d just wanted to redeem himself. To make _amends_.

Hank kept staring at him, waiting for him to answer. _That’s another interrogation technique_ , his software reminded him. _He’s waiting for you to fill the silence, to answer the question_.

He didn’t _want_ to answer the question. There would just be _more_ questions, some that he couldn’t answer… Like the one that was always simmering in the back of his mind these days - _can Amanda still do that, just take control of me? Is she just waiting for the right moment?_

 _Am I just a ticking time bomb_?

“Connor,” Hank said sternly, apparently having lost his patience. “A memory of _what_?”

“It’s nothing,” Connor said resolutely, finally finding his voice.

Hank looked like he was about to tell Connor exactly what he thought of _that_ , but Connor pressed on, “I’m just… Scared of that. The thing that you said, about Kamski leaving something in my programming…” The best lies always contained elements of the truth. “I’m scared of losing control. Of being programmed to do things that…” He brought his arms up to hug himself, struggling to look Hank in the eye as the memory of the gun in his hand rose to the forefront of his mind. Of seeing the back of Markus’ head, and knowing that no one would be able to stop him in time. “That I don’t want to do,” he finished, voice wavering.

“You gotta stop doin’ this to me, kid,” Hank sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Is there some kinda warning you can give me next time you have a fuckin’ panic attack?”

“Panic attack?” Connor repeated, considering the phrase. . “Is… Is that what that was?”

“Sure as shit looked like it,” Hank shrugged, waving a hand in the air non-committedly. “Or, like, a flashback, or whatever.”

 _Flashback_. A quick run through a search engine left him with the Wikipedia definition.

“ _A flashback, or involuntary recurrent memory, is a psychological phenomenon in which an individual has a sudden, usually powerful, re-experiencing or a past experience or elements of a past experience… The term is used particularly when the memory is recalled involuntarily, and/or when it is so intense that the person ‘relives’ the experience, unable to fully recognise it as memory and not something that is happening in real time_.”

“I had a flashback,” He said slowly, comprehension of the phenomenon easing his stress a little.

“And you’re not gonna tell me what it was about?” Hank asked casually, _too_ casually, sinking back into the couch and patting the space beside him.

Connor obediently sat, rigidly, not quite at ease enough to relax into the seat. “… No,” He said, finally.

Hank, to his amazement, didn’t argue with that. He just nodded, and held out the blanket, which Connor spread over their legs.

“Maybe, one day,” He said uncertainly. Hank just shrugged, humming in response. It seemed that he just… Wasn’t going to push Connor to tell him.

It was… An _enormous_ relief.

Connor wasn’t sure what to say now, though. It didn’t seem like they could just go back to sitting on the couch, watching TV, and cuddling Sumo. He wasn’t even sure that Sumo would come _near_ him, at this point.

“I’m sorry,” Connor repeated, as Hank picked up the remote and started flicking through the channels. Perhaps he _did_ intend to just go on as if nothing had happened?

“Don’t be sorry,” Hank said, eyes still on the TV. “We’ve all been there.”

“No, I meant for…” The terrible guilt was there again, but he couldn’t let this go unaddressed. “For hurting Sumo.”

“Oh,” Hank said, looking over the back of the couch to where Sumo was sulking. “He’s fine. You just gave him a scare.”

Connor looked at the coffee table in front of the couch, which was clearly askew. He hadn’t touched it, so it must have been Sumo – he must have pushed Sumo against it when he stood. His reconstruction program confirmed that suspicion.

Combine that with the pained whimpers, and Connor knew that Hank was lying.

“No, Hank, I _hurt_ him. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, _ever_ ,” Connor said vehemently, silently imploring Hank to understand the depth of his guilt. “Is there something I can do to make it up to him? I don’t want him to be scared of me.”

“He’s a _dog_ , Connor. He’ll be okay,” Hank said, giving up on channel surfing and levelling a stern look at Connor. As if to prove his point, he whistled and patted the couch, calling, “Sumo! Up.”

The dog obediently ambled back over, tail low but still wagging. He hesitated before jumping onto their laps, instead sitting down on the ground at Hank’s feet.

“Up!” Hank repeated, but Sumo ignored him and instead wandered into the kitchen to eat out of the open dog food bag on the ground next to his bowl. Hank frowned at his retreating tail.

“I told you,” Connor said softly, hands twisting the blanket in his lap. The sensation of the scratchy wool against his fingers helped to distract himself, but Sumo’s rejection still stung him deeply.

“He’ll come around. He’s had worse, and he still likes me,” Hank said easily.

“You’ve never hurt Sumo,” Connor argued, unable to even _picture_ such a scenario.

Hank grimaced, turning to look at the TV rather than at Connor. “Sober Hank would _never_. Drunk Hank is a lot more… Clumsy.” Hank coughed into his hand, face reddening and still refusing to look at Connor. “You know drunk Hank. That guy’s a real _prick_.”

“He’s alright, once you get to know him,” Connor was becoming more and more aware of how much he hated hearing Hank talk himself down. “Besides, if he’s ever _too_ stubborn, I’ve found showering him with cold water sobers him up very quickly.”

There. A joke to lighten the mood.

It worked. Hank smiled, sheepishly, and it felt good to know that he could still make Hank happy. Connor smiled back, and it felt like things were finally getting back to where they’d been before.

Their moment was interrupted by Hank’s phone.

Hank made no move to answer it, until Connor gently chided him, “It might be important.”

Reluctantly, Hank pulled it from his jeans pocket and swiped the answer button. “What?” He said shortly.

Connor could clearly hear Fowler on the other end. “Ben said Connor’s back up and running. You two coming in today?”

Hank groaned loudly, sinking back against the couch. “Really, Jeff? We _just_ got home.”

“Ben said he dropped you off last night,” Fowler responded. “Besides, I think you’ll wanna come in. Got another case for you.”

“Another case…?” Hank looked at Connor, who was leaning forward intently. He must mean another android case – there wouldn’t be much opportunity to get in before the FBI got their grubby hands all over it.

Hank mouthed at him, “ _You okay to go_?”, and Connor nodded eagerly. In fact, he was _desperate_ to get back to work. Sitting on the couch and dealing with his feelings was proving to be an awful way to live. He wanted to be _useful_ again.

“Yeah, we could _really_ use Connor on it,” Fowler said meaningfully. “What time can you get there? I’ve already texted you the address.”

“Give us half an hour,” Hank said, before remembering his car situation. “Uh… Can you get us a lift?”

“Wilson is on his way to yours now,” Fowler said. “He’ll be there in ten.”

“Well, great,” Hank rubbed at his brow, where Connor suspected he was feeling the beginnings of a stress headache. “See you later, I guess.”

“Oh, and, uh… When you guys get back to the precinct, you might wanna come in the back way,” Fowler added cryptically. “There’s been a bunch of media milling around outside looking for Connor. ‘ _Assassination attempt on the world’s first android detective_ ’… It’s been fucking _hell_ around here all week.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Hank said, but Fowler had already hung up. “Whelp,” He said, looking at his phone. “Guess our vacation is over.”

“Time to go back and face my co-workers,” Connor said with a put-upon sigh. “At least my near-death experience is likely to dissuade anyone in the precinct from mocking me about the _Gavin-jeans_ incident.”

His biocomponents all seemed to stutter at once when Hank laughed, and Connor couldn’t stop himself laughing along. Being able to make Hank smile was like a drug, and he was addicted.

It was a much lighter mood as they hurried to prepare to leave. Hank had barely had time to dress in non-sweaty clothes, managing the lightest spray of deodorant before Wilson was pulling up outside. Connor had stayed in the clothes from Kamski’s, but he still wore Hank’s battered tan jacket. Hank didn’t ask for it back, and Connor didn’t offer it. He quite liked it.

Hank pulled on another (equally worn) jacket, Connor handed him the toasted sandwich he’d made for him while he dressed, and then they were out the door.

Time to do their part in the ongoing android revolution.


	8. The sensation of touch seemed to invite more emotions that he had expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor try to go about life as usual... But events are catching up to them. The disturbance at the bottom of society has caused rumblings at the top. It isn't yet clear what role Connor has in all of this.
> 
> In the meantime, there are cases to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, I have not been here in ages. _I APOLOGISE_.
> 
> It's only a short chapter, but I've had it written for, like... Over a month? I just thought that it was too short to post, but... Writing is taking me an awful long time, so I figured that I should throw this out there.
> 
> My life has calmed down a tad, so hopefully I will have more updates before this month ends haha _//anime sweatdrop//_
> 
> For those of you who care, I swear that I have not abandoned _I Got You, Babe_. I'll get there, I promise!!

Wilson explained the circumstances to them as they drove.

“It’s really not good, guys,” He said sombrely as they drove past dozens of empty houses. The present lack of a significant human population in Detroit gave the whole city a surreal feel, like walking through a dream. “It’s a homicide – two victims, one human, one android.”

Connor managed to drag his attention away from his hands against the leather seats. It was cool, smooth, and a little squishy – sinking a little under his weight, building a light static charge against the fabric of his pants. But there were more important things to discuss – he forcefully drew his focus to the conversation. “Do we know who is responsible?”

He couldn’t help but continue to subtly squeeze the seat.

“Well, kinda,” Wilson said, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head. Connor’s interrogation subroutine informed him that this was a gesture of discomfort. “The android killed the human.”

“… And who killed the android?” Hank ventured, and it sounded to Connor like he already knew the answer, and was dreading it.

“A _lotta_ people, it looks like,” Wilson mumbled.

Connor wasn’t sure what to make of that, but Hank made a frustrated sound and sank back in his seat.

“What does that mean?” Connor asked, looking between the two of them.

Wilson cleared his throat, awkward. “There’s evidence that the android was tortured,” He said in a monotone. “And we’re guessing it tried to defend itself, before the group assaulting him realised that he could fight back. Just speculation, though. We’re tryna keep media away, mostly.”

“There are media at the scene?” Connor asked, already assessing the possibility of the scene being contaminated by nosy reporters. He was beginning to dislike journalists. He also catalogued the intel; a group had assaulted an android.

“Nah, we’ve blockaded the street. That hasn’t helped to stop those vultures being interested, though. Android violence is a big seller in the news, these days – everyone’s clamouring for a story.” Wilson kept his eyes on the road, sounding like he was weary of the situation.

For Connor, it was the first he’d heard of it. “There’s been many reports in the news, then?” He searched online for articles relating to “androids” and “violent”, and _tens of thousands_ of results appeared. A cursory analysis of headlines lead him to conclude that at least 4,000 articles per day were being published about “android attacks” across the United States.

Most of the articles were behind a paywall, however. It was when he attempted to purchase a subscription to a paper with an article titled, “Michigan Postal-Service Android Goes Postal,” that he discovered that he no longer had access to the Cyberlife bank account that he’d been using up until the revolution. He had a brief moment of intense frustration, but his suspicion was confirmed regardless. The media had already latched onto the narrative of killer androids and the threat that they posed to humanity.

“’Fraid so,” Hank grunted, crossing his arms and scowling. “It’s exactly what we said would happen, but it’s still _shit_.”

The car slowed down as they approached a police blockade, and were promptly waved through.

“We’re approaching the scene, guys,” Wilson warned them. “FBI’s ETA is fifteen minutes, cause this isn’t the only thing going on with androids today, and we’ve managed to keep the details of this hush-hush so far. If they catch wind that somebody’s dead, though, they’ll be here in a hot minute.”

Connor was so tightly wound that he actually flinched when Officer Wilson jerked the handbrake on as they parked. Hank apparently noticed, nudging Connor with his elbow and offering him a tight-lipped smile before opening the door and dragging himself into the cold air.

Connor did likewise, clutching Hank’s jacket closed to ward off the frigid breeze. His pants covered his legs, but barely – they had a see-through lace strip running diagonally from each hip, running around his legs, leaving his newly-sensitive skin vulnerable to the elements. Even as his temperature regulator kept his chest warm beneath the jacket, his legs felt ready to fall off.

He began a background diagnostic to try and determine if he could shut off his ability to feel the temperature from Kamski’s upgrade.

They’d been dropped off next to an alley, where Officer Person was taking photos of evidence. She’d already placed down markers, but she appeared to be the only person on the scene. It made sense, if they were trying to downplay the incident to reduce the likelihood of FBI and media interference. Down the road, he could see where a few reporters were hovering, waiting to see if there was a story.

“Connor, hurry up, would you?” Hank groused, arms still crossed. He, too, felt the cold.

“Coming, Lieutenant,” Connor hurried to his side,  nodding to Wilson as he restarted the car and headed back the way he’d come.

Hank and Connor made their way down the alley.

It was… Gruesome.

Blue blood was splattered on the walls as high as two metres, plastic casing shards and severed wires were camouflaged amongst rotting trash, and sprays of thirium coated most of the detritus that littered the claustrophobic space. It was fresh enough for Hank to see it, and he eyed it with an unreadable expression before approaching Person for a run-down on the situation.

Connor let a background process run to keep tabs on the conversation, which would flag him in the event that it raised something that required his attention. In the meantime, he scanned the area.

Connor set about reconstructing the scene.

Android was walking through the alley – a single set of footprints in the snow from the end of the alleyway they’d entered matched the men’s size seven shoes on the android’s feet. Other footprints from that direction belonged to Officer Person, Lieutenant Anderson, and himself. From the opposite direction, he could distinguish six sets of footprints, all between a men’s size nine through to eleven.

Six antagonists, ganging up on the android.

The android had held its ground, as its footprints didn’t double back.

The group had walked towards it, and pushed it backwards. It had knocked over a bin when it fell.

Then, one of the group had picked up a metal bar and started hitting the android as it lay on the ground. The metal bar lay alongside the bin, fingerprints on end matching one Jayden Molloy, eighteen years old, previous charges; assault, public drunkenness.

The other end of the pipe was bent slightly, and still covered in thirium.

The android had defended itself, rolling (he could see the disturbance in the show where its thirium-covered body had moved) and then charging, _throwing_ one of the attackers away from himself, and he would have landed–

His eyes found the red spot on the wall where the man’s head had hit it, and he moved to stand under it. The body lay beneath the bloodstain, slumped on the ground. Philip Kelly would look asleep, if not for his unnatural stillness, or the pale-grey tint to his skin.

Previous charges: assault, fraud. He was known to be part of a violent anti-android sect, the ‘ _Red-Blooded Americans’_.

Connor found it hard to drudge up sympathy for the man.

But that was neither here nor there with regards to the investigation, so he continued to reconstruct the scene.

The remaining five members had become more vicious, attacking the android with renewed gusto. They had kicked and beaten it, not allowing it a chance to stand. He could see the pieces of plastic, wiring, and thirium around the spot where it had occurred. His fingers, then arms and legs, had been detached at this point, and thrown haphazardly across the alleyway as though the assailants were simply tossing pieces over their shoulders. That accounted for the thirium reaching so high on the walls around them.

Then, before the android could die, they’d tossed it in a dumpster, poured a bottle of vodka over it, and set it alight. The ash burned the wall up to five metres, a black smear across the brickwork. Thirium was, after all, a highly flammable substance.

At the base of it, inside the bin, was the sad remains of the android. He could see the welts in the android’s cranium, where the blows from the pipe had landed. The frayed remains of wires poking from its joint sockets had melted together, forming a mess of twisted plastic and metal.

He was suddenly grateful that he was the only android who could feel pain.

He sighed as he leaned down to cradle the android’s head in his hand, while his other hand worked to pry open the cranial casing. Its casing was cold now, the fire long since burnt out. Thirium burned hot, but fast. The press of his hand against its misshapen plastic skull, bubbled and warped beneath his fingers, felt… Wrong.

The sensation of touch seemed to invite more emotions that he had expected.

“Hey, Connor, find anything-? … Oh. What the hell are you doing?” Hank came up beside him, craning his neck to watch Connor lean into the dumpster and root around in the android’s brain.

“Finding its memory core,” He explained, lamenting the press of the edge of the dumpster into his abdomen. He understood that pain would be useful in teaching him to avoid injuring himself, but he didn’t like that it was so intense _right now_ , when there situation was so utterly safe. “I can’t interface with it, as its system has been destroyed, but if its memory is salvageable, then we can prove definitively that the android was not the aggressor, which my recreation of the scene has lead me to believe is the case.”

“… And you think the memories will be intact after he’s had his head caved in and been burnt to a crisp?” Hank asked incredulously, eyeing the burnt-out husk that was all that was left of whoever this person had been.

Connor’s fingers found the storage for the memory unit, carefully prying it loose from its moorings.

“Yes,” He said succinctly. “This is a BT-600, a banking manager. They were specifically designed so as to ensure the confidential data in their minds would be safeguarded, even in the event of attack. There are few androids, outside of myself, who have such protections around their cranial unit.”

“… Good to know,” Hank said, sounding perturbed.

Connor successfully tugged the memory unit loose, and heard the snow crunch beneath Hank’s feet behind him as he levered himself out-

“ _JESUS_ Christ, Connor,” Hank said, and Connor looked over his shoulder to ascertain his alleged crime _this_ time, still hanging over the edge of the dumpster.

He hadn’t even put anything in his mouth!

“What?” Connor asked, at a loss.

“What are you fucking _wearing_?” Hank swore, face flushing as he covered his eyes and turned away. “Your fucking _ass_ is hanging out!”

Connor craned his head further to see what Hank meant.

Sure enough, from his position bent over the side, Hank’s jacket had ridden up so that the see-through lace trim that wound around his pant legs could be seen… All the way up to where it ended at the seam between his ass cheeks.

“Oh,” Connor said, fingers gently grasping his prize as he slid backwards, allowing Hank’s jacket to fall over his barely-covered ass. “My apologies.”

He would have explained that they were the clothes that Kamski had left for him, but a) Hank already knew the origin of the clothes, and b) he didn’t want to increase Hank’s ire with Kamski above the level it was _already at_.

Besides… He felt a warm sensation through his abdomen at the thought that Hank might _like_ what he had seen.

“Fuckin’… Never mind, got the shit you need?” Hank asked, pinching the bridge of his nose, being careful to avoid meeting Connor’s eye.

The warm feeling was doused a little by Hank’s apparent lack of interest. “Yes,” Connor said, holding out the memory core to show Hank. “Now we will need to hook it up to a diagnostic machine to remove its memories and convert them to a playable format that can be used as evidence.”

“Great, let’s get out of this shithole, then,” He sniffed, nodding a goodbye at Officer Person. “Later, Verity,” He said stiffly, marching back the way they’d come.

Connor hurried alongside him while Hank called them a taxi to get back to the precinct.

“This whole thing is such a mess,” Hank muttered while his phone dialled.

Connor couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at the mess they were leaving behind. “It sure is, Lieutenant.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

They got a call from Fowler in the cab, warning them not to come to the precinct.

“We’re just surrounded by bullshit today, the last thing we need is those vultures outside catching a glimpse of the ‘world’s first android detective’,” He said sharply.

“Are the press there?” Connor asked, addressing the phone in Hank’s hand – it was on speaker, so that they could both hear it.

“Are they ever,” Fowler said gruffly, clearly irate. “It’s better that you either make yourselves scarce, or you sneak in – the whole ‘speaking to the press’ think has these fuckers convinced that they have a right to barge in here and get an exclusive goddamn interview with everyone here.  Not to mention what the top brass thought of it…”

“What did _they_ say?” Hank asked warily, eyes narrowing. “You said they were giving you trouble about Connor… What’s their response been?”

Fowler sighed heavily through the phone, and Connor felt a weight settle heavily in his thirium reservoir.

“Something along the lines of, ‘we oughta recyle that plastic fucker into something more useful’ – if you wanna have more press releases in the future, it can’t be in the precinct. The Commissioner is riding my ass like you wouldn’t believe. It’ll be a miracle if I can convince them to let Connor stay on the force,” And the admission seemed to drain the last of the energy that Fowler had.

“… So I am no longer employed?” Connor asked, thirium pump beating fast enough that he feared it might burst.

Hank regarded him with something resembling pity, but Connor kept his eyes on the phone. He didn’t want to see the hurt in Hank’s eyes on his behalf.

“… You’re still technically listed as equipment, so I can keep you on a little longer – but you should know that there’s a lot of pressure to get you out of your position,” Fowler informed them.

“What the fuck do they care?” Hank demanded, glaring at the phone. If Fowler were in the same room, that glare would burn right through him.

“The police – nationally, not just in Detroit – have been negotiating a deal with Cyberlife,” Fowler’s voice was suddenly hushed. “I… Can’t tell you more,” He said, and Hank and Connor exchanged a look of bewilderment. “… But suffice to say, everyone from the FBI to the DHS has been giving me shit over Connor’s little announcement…”

“ _Homeland Security?!_ ” Hank blurted, clearly floored. “What the fuck do _they_ care about this shit?!”

“I _can’t_ say,” Fowler said, though his tone implied that, perhaps, he _wanted_ to say more. “Why don’t you two head home, and we can talk more about how to proceed _later_.”

“… What?” Hank sounded so confused, and Connor didn’t know how to respond.

“I’ve gotta go,” Fowler said suddenly. “Go home. File your reports, do your paperwork from there – it’s better if we talk in person.”

And then he hung up on them.

Hank stared at his phone for a few moments.

“… What the fuck?” He asked, though Connor assumed the question was rhetorical, and refrained from answering.

He didn’t think that he had an answer, anyway.

If Fowler’s vague allusions to the interference of Federal agencies was anything to go by, his future at the DPD was more uncertain that either he or Hank had realised.

“… We’ll figure this out,” Hank said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. The deep-set frown on his face seemed to indicate otherwise, but neither commented on it.

Connor just nodded, looking out the window and wondering what lay in store for both of them.

They sat in silence for the rest of the cab ride home, each lost in their own thoughts.

 

-

 

“Oh!” Hank said suddenly, as the cab pulled up outside their house. “Don’t forget that you need to get out of those pants!”

Connor tilted his head, before the meaning caught up to him. _Kamski’s pants_. The ones that exposed his ass cheeks to the world.

“Not even going to buy me dinner first?” He said innocently.

“… And into new ones, _obviously_ ,” Hank scoffed as he exited the cab, slamming the door unnecessarily hard as he did so.

Even if his future at the DPD was uncertain, at least his friendship with Hank wasn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> shameless plea: _please comment if you liked it_ (*ﾉωﾉ)


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